


Whatever choices you make

by Anloquen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Castiel, Angst, Attempt at Humor, BAMF Castiel, Camp Chitaqua, Canon Compliant, Croatoans, Episode: s05e04 The End, F/M, Human Castiel, It Gets Worse, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anloquen/pseuds/Anloquen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After parting with Sam and resolving to find the Colt Dean struggles to stop the Apocalypse. All the sell-outs he experienced and constantly changing alliances leave them increasingly insecure. There is only one person truly devoted to him, but this awareness doesn't really make Dean feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_A part of his mind was looped on a single thought; like an itch, like a bug trying to bore its way through his skull. ‘It had already happened. You know it’._

_The rest was petrified._

_It was not panic; panic would make him look for a solution, set his blood on fire, give him a jab of energy._

_His heart was pumping like crazy, but in vain. Limp muscles did not react; oxygen rush was making his head dizzy and his sight hazy. Spikes of frost were creeping up his spine, locking every fiber of his body in an icy trap._

_Atop of it there was this small, frail spark of warmth fluttering in his stomach, like a ray of sunlight hitting his face through thick shade of an early spring morning._

_Dean could not name this feeling._

_All he knew was that he felt every step of that being; its feet sending waves of tremor through his bones. Formidable, but not fearsome._

_It was Bobby who shot first and Dean followed his example blindly as soon as the sound of gunshot triggered his instincts._

_If the creature did not blink, perhaps the hunter would simply feel the well-known disappointment spiked with anger, as usually when a weapon they chose proved ineffective. If this being just continued its menacing march, it would be normal._

_It blinked. Next step came with a minimal delay. It was not a spectre, oblivious and immune to anything that was not the weapon destined to them. It was physical._

_And yet walked on._

_When it approached Dean it was at ease. Just a casual visit. Its shoulders relaxed, perhaps even hunched a bit; the being proved smaller than Dean would have sworn it had been just a few second earlier._

_The familiar roughness of Ruby’s knife in his hand eased him a bit. Just enough to let him force words through his throat:_

_“Who are you?”_

_“I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” it said like it was a natural thing to say._

_A pang of burning pain burst in his left shoulder. It lasted but a moment, but gave him strength for the blow._

_Dean felt the blade pierce the being’s skin and muscles, chip its ribs, dig into the throbbing hollow of aorta. Never before had a stab felt so real; the hilt vibrated with life of this body, with the flow of blood against the blade. If it was not for that slightest wince of the being’s chin, the barely visible twitch when the being clenched its jaws Dean would be less baffled._

_A creature that does not feel a stab is one thing. A being that feels it and stands still is another._

_It looked at that hilt, then at Dean again; this strange mixture of anger and amusement or even appreciation made the Winchester boy feel like a child. It was too close to the way his father looked at him when he had gotten into mischchief that was particularly nasty, but required wit or strength. It was angry, but it did not threaten; just traced Dean’s features with its blood-chilling look as if it wanted to sear every flicker of Dean’s muscle into its memory._

_It just waited. Endlessly patient, incomprehensibly perspicacious. The thing about that angel that terrified Dean the most was not that it was capable of harming him; it was that the angel was capable of knowing him._

He woke up with a violent gasp, tired and sore. In full light of the day it did not take him long to gather his thoughts, nonetheless he didn’t move yet. He scanned his immediate surroundings with discredit, focusing on separate stimuli one by one. The bedsheet was rough and itchy; perhaps crumbs of the pie he had eaten in bed the previous evening - or rather night - contributed to the feeling. The pillow against his cheek smelled of cheap detergent and insecticide. The wallpaper on the wall adjacent to his bed was greasy and tattered. It all meant that the room was real and Dean was truly awake. Over time he had learned to tell reality from his dreamy rendezvous’ with Castiel by the details. Perhaps the angel could not capture all the dirtiness of the world, perhaps he chose not to. Whatever the reason, everything in these dreams was somehow nicer, a little bit less unkempt, a little bit less miserable.

There was another thing to check. Dean inhaled slowly, focused on discerning every component. There was no trace of this particular scent of frankincense, chrism and...sacredness; the aroma of an old catholic church that always surrounded Castiel. The hunter decided to take the final step - roll to his back, sit up and look around. There was noone in sight. He sighed with relief.

Somehow the thought that he would see Castiel sitting on the edge of his bed or leaning against a wall was more troubling than usually. It was not the first time he had had this particular dream - one of the most realistic of his recurring dream and the only one of them that was not exactly a nightmare. It was not pleasant, though.

Every time after waking up the hunter was mortified by the thought that anyone could invade his mind while it was replaying his first encounter with an angel; scrutinizing every detail of that night, etched into Dean’s memory with painful minuteness.

_That barely discernible smirk of pride on Castiel’s face when they were talking about his vessel._

_That birdlike tilt of his head._

_That weakness in Dean’s legs he felt when he stood there, breathing heavily, feeling naked and defenseless against Castiel’s piercing gaze._  
  
_That furrow on the angel’s forehead when he did not understand why Dean refused to believe him._

_That ocean of compassion and sorrow spilling from his calm, beautiful eyes when he finally did._

Dean threw his legs over the edge of the bed and checked the time. He still had 6 hours of driving ahead of him, which meant much time to forget about the dream before he reached Saint Louis. Before he needed to speak to people.

  
=====================================================

 

He spotted a hunched figure in beige trench coat sitting on an old empty concrete planter even before he noticed the dirty blue and yellow signboard. He pulled off to the parking lot. Castiell stood up and followed the Impala as it crawled in front of him. In the rear view mirror Dean could notice a faint attempt of smile on Cas’ usually sullen face.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean greeted his friend having parked and gotten off the car, “Sorry it took so long. Waiting must be a new thing for you, huh?”

“On the contrary. And I didn’t waste time here. Let’s talk inside.”

Cas extended his arm and for moment Winchester had an impression that the angel wanted to shake hands. He looked down in astonishment and noticed that Cas was handing him keys.

“You got us a room?” Dean chuckled “I guess it used up your daily quota of interacting with normal people. How was it?”

“This isn’t funny. People are... bizarre.”

Refusing to wonder what the angel could mean Dean took his duffel from the trunk, then followed Castiel to the door, still snickering.

“You could have waited if it is so difficult.”

“I don’t think I could,” Castiel answered dourly and with a hint of grouse while the hunter was struggling with an old, rusty lock “There is a price on your head. Everyone is looking for you.”

“And?” Dean quirked his eyebrow.

They entered the room; the hunter slumped down onto a bed to start undoing his shoes while Castiel sat stiffly at the table.

“And they have lackeys among people too. Eyes and ears everywhere. I figured that a holy tax accountant is less characteristic than...” Castiel tilted his head and squinted for a while, as if trying to remember something, “Overcompensating, military-style, gay-porn type yahoo.”

Winchester coughed and straightened up.

“Excuse me?”

“This is the description they are using to inquire about your whereabouts, I believe. Demons, at least,” Castiel answered, most sincerely clueless. His loss was so endearing that Dean’s outrage melted down in no time.

“So you think that Columbo slash Rainman is totally inconspicuous?”

A frown of bafflement appeared on Castiel’s face. The hunter sighed.

“Come on. You’ve been here for like a year. It’s high time you pick up some culture.”

“I seriously doubt it is possible. I still don’t understand half of what you say,” Castiel’s remark was half-indignant, half-teasing. “Last time I took vessel and roamed Earth, people spoke Aramaic and what you now call pop-culture references was very different,” the angel stopped short, tilting his head and somehow sinking into a state of distrait rumination “which, in fact, is very unfortunate.”

This time the hunter’s grimace of amusement was accompanied with a snort.

“Jeez, seriously...”

“This is not trivial, Dean. In fact it might have contributed to many wars. I doubt that Jesus took it under consideration.”

Having opened his mouth to utter another scoffing remark Winchester noticed the look Cas gave him was entirely serious. He figured he would simply let the angel continue.

“He was a lot like you. A careless urchin, thoroughly good deep down, but making very bad decisions very capriciously,” he ignored Dean’s indignant 'hey' and spoke on “Telling his parables in such a cryptic language might have been one of them. In retrospect it seems obvious that it had to lead to certain misunderstandings eventually. But he thought it would be... cool...” he finished with a sassy jeer, perhaps mimicking someone he knew well.

For the first time Dean witnessed the angel mock someone in such a humane, lively way. In this astonishment the real meaning of Castiel’s word almost escaped his notice.

“You mean that there was really a hippie carpenter who hitched a desert with a bunch of Charlton Heston dudes and said all these weird things you read in the Bible?”

“Which Bible?”

Castiel’s dark tone and brooding look suggested that the answer was there, but Dean did not get it. The angel sighed.

“That is the point. He used metaphors, culture references, quoted silly folk songs just like you do. Imagine that you left a commandment for people to be like...” Castiel’s look wandered about the ceiling for a moment before it rested on Dean again, “...Luke Skywalker, meaning that you want them to be brave, selfless and honest, and people ended up arguing that your religion is stupid because it requires people to walk on sky.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. For an instant he felt like throwing his arms around his friend, hugging him ans saying how proud he was.

“You watched Star Wars?” he exclaimed in amazement.

Next second his joy was squashed. Castiel seemed to be perfectly serious when he said:

“No. It would take too much time. I read a detailed synopsis.”

Winchester hid his face in his hands and laughed out hysterically.

“What?”

“No, nothing,” Dean choked out between fits of chuckle. He run his palms down his face to calm down and asked, looking into Cas’s eyes:

“So what did you discover here, Clouseau?”

There was a flicker of tentative smile on Castiel’s face; his features softened somehow, revealing barely discernible affection all but masked by his usual gravity. Dean felt his own cheeks twitch when he half-consciously mirrored this expression.

“No, really. What did you find here.”

The angel’s face got back to its usual impervious expression.

“There is a place here in an abandoned hotel. A gathering place for prostitutes, drug addicts, fetishists, wannabe devil worshipers. Apparently demons as well. Strange things started happening there a while ago.”

“You mean stranger than stoned trannies sacrificing black cats?”

“I mean people healed of AIDS or finding suitcases full of cocaine under their foam pads.”

Dean rose his eyebrows.

“What does it have to do with the Colt?”

Castiel took a thin file of worn-out, untidily folded pages from his pocket and handed them to Dean.

“These are some photos from the place.”

“How did you get them?” Winchester gave his friend a suspicious glance.

“Doesn’t matter. Just look.”

It took Dean some time to recognize shapes in black and white printouts. Finally he noticed darker lines on dirty, fissured walls.

“Woah... That’s some serious devil worshiping.”

“Look again.”

Dean squinted and started to scrutinize the pictures. As soon as he got a grasp of it, more and more details started to pop up.

“They’re all wrong. Upside down, wrong runes, mirror image... This one is painted on a crack in the wall. Dude, there’s even Imperial Crest. Some morons scribbled it. What the fuck?”

“My guess is that whoever nests there, he or she doesn't want to be noticed by Lucifer or any higher rank demons. Anyone who is busy dealing with global-scale actions.”

“All right, so there is a crossroads demon selling crack to some junkies and scribbling bullshit in some bughouse. What does it have to do with us?”

The angel stood up to take the pages from Dean, found one large picture of a single pentagram that was painted upside down and had symbols added in every space between its arms - absolutely wrong and powerless. The whole wall around it was covered in chaotically spread symbols.

“This,” Castiel spread the page in front of Dean, then leant against the table “this is not meant to lure people. It’s enochian. It’s a message to other demons.”

“What does it say?”

“It’s gibberish. Except for these five inscribed into the pentagram.”

“And these? What do they mean?”

“Nothing.”

Dean snorted.

“Nothing? Wow. Nothing, but not gibberish.”

Castiel rose his hands, then let them fall heavily onto the table a gesture of bitter surrender.

“They mean nothing, but they spell something,” he explained with exasperation.

“That being?”

“B.L.U.E.S.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, let out a quiet sigh, considered something for a while, then gave his friend a questioning glance.

“Crossroads blues? The king of crossroads is there? It’s a message for demons?”

“Not all of them. As I said, only the lesser grade. Those, who have roamed earth lately. Those, who have nothing to gain if they follow Lucifer.”

The hunter’s brows furrowed; a spark of anger glinted in his eyes.

“Cas, how do you know it? There’s no way you figured it out on your own.”

“This is not important. If anyone knows anything about the colt, they are meeting in this hotel. Shall we check it?”

Dean gritted his teeth. However Castiel got the information, it was high time to use it.

“When?”

“As soon as it gets dark.”

“All right, let’s take a look.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know it doesn't feel much like Croatoan Endverse now. We will get there in time. In fact, whatever we do, whatever choices we make, we will always end up there.
> 
> Every piece of advice and constructive criticism is highly appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

  
They left impala a few blocks away and walked towards the hotel. As much as Dean hated walking as a method of getting around that was inefficient and boring, this brisk walk through an unkempt park with Cas by his side was strangely calming. It reminded him of scanning graveyards or looking for werewolves with Sammy. Sammy, who always marveled at Dean’s nagging. The younger Winchester loved walking.

The hunter took a quick glance at his friend. The expression of exasperation: tightly pursed lips and squint spoke volumes. Obviously Cas hated walking too. Dean snickered having remembered the time when Castiel could afford to trifle away his power and was too lazy to get off a car normally or take a few stairs. Back then, when the angel casually did all the tricks the Winchesters hated in supernatural creatures Dean had troubles fully accepting him as an ally. Now that Castiel was more human the hunter felt much more familiar with him. Which automatically meant that he cared. Untamed chain of associations ultimately led to where it always wound up. Dean could feel a flush of shame creeping up his cheeks. He realized he’d never even really cared to ask how hard it was for Castiel to be cut off from Heaven; how hard it was for him to cope with a loss he suffered for Dean. He stopped abruptly.

“Hey, you ok?” he asked, belatedly realizing how strange it must have looked for someone unaware of his train of thought.

The angel gave him a surprised glance and answered, a bit warily:

“Of course I am ok. We’re almost there.”

 

=====================================================

  
The place was indeed sleazy and darksome, though far from dead. The multistory residential wings that could collapse any minute were abandoned, door boarded up, dark hollows of paneless windows letting cold, evening wind swoosh among damp walls. There was, however, a perfectly functioning, though scary (in sanitary sense) pub in a single-store wing, next to a shady ASG club. Dean spotted also a heavy, metal door stylized to resemble blast door - obviously added recently. Loud, rhythmical, bass thumping behind and underneath it almost rocked the ground, mixing with the deafening roar of techno from the disco and clamor of people waiting and smoking outside. The man refused to wonder what was behind that door.

What he was interested in was a dense-looking teen in combat boots, camo pants and black T-shirt. Behind his pale, oily face covered in acne and pitiful peach fuzz there was an even uglier face of a lesser grade demon - at least that was what Castiel had said. As opposed to other demons mingled with the herd of adventurous barely-legals this one passed the disco, ASG club and mysterious door like he knew where he was going. He circled the main building and almost vanished in deep shade of the hotel’s rear area, lit only by dim moonlight. He took look around, pulled the desks barring one of the staff entrances to one of the residential wings.

“Ready?” Dean asked, shaking a can of spray paint, though in the dull bass thrumm echoing among concrete walls he barely heard his own voice.

Castiel has already unsheathed his angel blade; it glinted coldly in the moonlight. A small nod was the only answer.

 

=====================================================

 

Dean was struggling to slow down, to somehow balance his pace between the urge to get out of the area as fast as possible and being too careless. He kept rubbing his thumbs against his fingers to get rid of dried blood. Disgusting. Not only the fact that it was demon’s blood. Dean was appalled by how easily the demon chickened out and blew the gaffe. They didn’t even have to move him out of the original devil’s trap. All it took was angel’s blade against his neck and even though Dean had no special senses he would have sworn he saw the demon’s authentic fear.

Still, it was not a victory. All they learned from the demon was that the king of crossroads had been there, mainly in order to recruit henchmen - soul deals were purely coincidential - and had left a few days earlier to establish another one of what he called his agencies. At least they knew what to look for. Places attracting the weak and wicked: both people and demons.

The hunter was slowly calming down as they were approaching the place where they had left the Impala. The last dangerous part was a dimly lit underground passage, radiating under a vast, elaborate roundabout. Winchester did not expect to meet anyone there, so he entered the musty concrete tunnel readily, gesturing Cas to follow.

He certainly did not expect to be slammed against a wall as soon as he turned the first corner; impact knocking the knife and duffel bag from his hands. Or the fact that this petite, gaunt tween looking like a cheap prostitute with her sleek blonde braids and japanese-schoolgirl-style tartan mini skirt would be a demon. A powerful demon in charge of at least fifteen others.

The she-demon had him tethered and though he knew there was no use he fought the immaterial harness so hard that his own pulse pounding in his head drowned out every other sound. He gave up trying to glare at the girl, gave up trying not to look terrified and preserve last shreds of dignity. Instead he scanned the tunnel for Castiel, hoping that he wouldn't see the angel; that Castiel had managed to flee.

To his terror he saw a hint of the beige trench coat out of the corner of his eye. The silhouette didn’t move. It took Dean a while to put two and two together, but he realized that Cas was immobilized by two demons; one held his hands wrenched behind his back and another held an angel's blade against his neck.

"Well, well, well..." The demon in charge tilted her head with a slimy leer. The dark red lipstick on her narrow lips looked almost black in the dim, blueish light of flickering fluorescent lamps. These lips and obvious signs of drug abuse on her still childish face looked just too dire, too grotesque.

"Looks like we're alone here and we have plenty of time before our master arrives. I think she will appreciate that we speed things up, what do you think, boys?"

A wave of ugly laughter rolled through the herd of demons.

"Bring him on!" she-demon snapped her fingers. The demons that were holding Cas pushed him towards her and threw him to his knees, still pressing the weapon to his neck. To his terror Dean noticed that the blade was searing a crimson mark into his skin and Castiel's face twitched in pain.

The demon began, looking at Dean with a mixture of curiosity and contempt :

"You know, I'm ashamed to admit it, but we've recently lost track of your dear brother. I suppose you must know where he is..." she gave him a once-over and smirked “but nah, you wouldn't tell us even if we tore you into pieces...” she made a gesture of picking something with her free hand “after all, you went to hell for him" she laughed out; it was a velvety, sonorous, purring laughter "and broke the first seal, you poor thing. I imagine it must have been awkward when you found out"

Dean felt her grip loosen a bit so he tried to struggle free. She-demon just clenched her fist and the invisible harness around Dean's chest tightened, almost suffocating him.

She pinched her lower lip and looked up theatrically, as if she was pondering.

"Anyway, there is someone else here who is not that tough I suppose. Perhaps he knows where our little precious Sammy boy is hiding."

"Leave him alone, you bitch, he doesn't know shit." Dean snapped as loud as he could despite the pressure crushing his ribs and wringing breath from his lungs.

"Oh, I'm sure he does... Isn't he the guardian angel of both of you, boys? Or does he like one of the kids better, just like your father did?"

She rose her free hand and at her command one of the demons that held Cas slid the blade lower, under his collar and started to push it slowly into his flesh, just along his skin, carving a long, shallow wound. Blood staining the white shirt seemed black in the lurid blue light percolating through the fabric. Cas clenched his fists; his jaw trembled; it wasn't long until he broke and let out a guttural scream. When he was able to catch a breath again he shook his head, locking his stare with Dean's.

"For fuck's sake, leave him alone, you mad cow!"

"Nah, can't do," the teen snapped her fingers again. Castiel's arms were pulled further back, making him arch his spine and another demon tore his shirt open. Dean could see exactly how the blade did not pierce, but burned its way through Cas's skin and flesh and how the angel quaked. This time he managed to choke back cries of pain; he just growled with his jaws clenched so tight that knots of strained muscles showed underneath his skin.

The demon took it slow. He gave Castiel a while to recover before he slid the tip of the blade along Cas's side and then stopped.

Castiel gathered himself quickly and drawled out, panting:

"Do what you must. I cannot tell you where Sam Winchester is. "

"Uh, oh! Tougher than I thought," she rose her eyebrows and put her index finger to her lower lip theatrically. "How about we hit the angel's underbelly?"

Before Dean realized what she meant he was pierced by burning pain so acute he cried out. He felt a flame sliding along every bone and vein in his body, disrupting him from inside. His vision become blurred and he heard nothing but his own growl until he was hit by a wave of heat so powerful that he was sure it was the final blow to kill him.

Next second the pain was gone and Dean was lying on the floor, instinctively protecting his eyes from blinding light that filled the tunnel. When he felt the blaze had died down he slowly lifted his eyelids and what he saw made him freeze in awe.

Castiel was moving quickly, dealing deadly blasts with his bare hands; each touch made a demon jolt and fall in a flash of reddish light. Two demons in bodies of construction workers sprung out at him, but Castiel stopped them with one firm motion of spread fingers; it bashed them against a wall, next to scorched remains of those who had held Cas. The concrete was seared behind their backs, just as if they had been thrown there by explosion.

Before the demon in charge managed to shake off shock or panic and move, she fell down, sizzling and screaming under Castiel's touch.

The angel took a quick look around, grabbed the knife, then sunk to his knees next to Dean, ignoring his own wounds that still bled heavily.

"We need to get out of here now. She said something bigger was coming."  
  
He touched Dean's arm, there was a flash of light and the next thing Dean saw was his motel room. He must have passed out for a moment, because when he came to his senses the room was already demonproofed with salt, devil's traps and there were bottles of holy water placed so that they would be within reach from every point of the room.

Castiel was sitting on a bed with his look fixed at Dean with such intensity that the man felt uneasy.

"Sweet baby jesus, what was that?" Winchester hissed when he finally found his tongue.

"I smote the demons and moved us here." The angel stated the obvious in his usual awkwardly down-to-earth manner.

Dean moved to sit next to his friend, still tracked by his piercing gaze and finally came to his senses enough to notice that Castiel was curled up, pressing a towel to his chest and abdomen. "How are you?"

"I cannot say that the fight did not affect me, but I will heal."

"Yeah, I bet... That sucker cut you like a pie."

Castiel's eyelids fluttered as Dean grabbed his hands and pulled them away gently to look at the wounds. There were three long gashes, but only one of them looked nasty.

"Normally I’d say you gonna need some stitching..." he pursed his lips and looked at Cas questioningly.

There was a little delay, an elusive timeless moment when their gazes met; Dean’s finger still curled around Castiel’s wrists tingled like there was a current flowing through his bones. Next moment the angel grunted uneasily and freed his hands. He bowed to look at his own chest when he gingerly examined the wounds, but Dean could see a grimace of pain.

“I believe stitches can help. I don’t know how long it will take me to heal.”

The hunter stood up, balanced for a while because his legs were still limp and he was dizzy, but he managed to focus on his task. He fumbled in his bag for whisky, needles and dental floss, but he peeked at his friend from time to time. Castiel looked drained - not only because of the blood loss. Now that he focused Dean could really put his finger on the changes that had been taking place for weeks or even months. Castiel’s shoulders slouching more everytime they met. His eyes fading from this unearthly shade of blue to dove-grey. Shadows under his eyes.

Yet a moment earlier this worn out man shone like a nova - not on physical level, but Dean could clearly sense the energy beaming from Castiel, making the air simmer.

"Really, dude, like a goddamn nuke...” he blurted. It was not unusual for him to continue his inner dialogue aloud when he was around his angel and somehow Castiel usually got the message, “I thought your mojo was almost drained."

"They... infuriated me," the angel said carefully, like it was a shameful secret.

"And that made you go full Hulk?"

Dean sat next to his friend.

"Well, you should've Chuck Norris’ed them earlier, ya know. I wouldn't have to put you together now."

"I don't know what it means to chuck norris someone," Castiel said with a hint of reproach "but you have to know that I do not fully control my powers. Not now."

Dean's hand shook slightly as he was cleaning Cas's skin with a cloth. This restrained shudder that rolled through Castiel’s torso did not seem to be an effect or pain. A strange thought rang red alert in his mind. He shook it off, continued to examine the wounds and made a remark, carefully trying to sound casual.

"Anyway, being carved like a turkey must have pissed you off, so why didn't you go Hulk earlier?"

The man felt that piercing, pensive gaze resting on him, sending a cold shiver down his spine. He looked up and couldn't help letting out a quiet gasp when he met Castiel's eyes; his hand froze, pressed against Castiel's chest. The angel tilted his head and spoke with a hint of passionate sincerity making his voice sound more resonant than usually:

"They were hurting y o u, Dean."


	3. Chapter 3

"They were hurting y o u, Dean."

They way Castiel said this name made the man's guts knot. The troubling thought flashed bright red that was impossible to ignore. Dean had to put much effort into shaking it off and continuing to tend to his friend.

Castiel hissed when the hunter poured whiskey over his wounds and Dean caught the opportunity to brush the strange tension off with a joke.

"Hey, that bitch said you were tough. Don't be a sissy now."

Cas seemed sincerely ashamed.

"I am sorry. In our fights we usually go for a kill. I don't recall ever being wounded. It is all new to me."

"Your first time, huh?" Deen's lips twitched in a smirk "Ok, I'm gonna be gentle."

He laughed out stiltedly, a bit too loud considering how bad the joke was, then sighed and grabbed the needle, but it took much willpower to dig it into Castiel's flesh - with Castiel's face so close, with his chin skimming hair on top of Dean's head and with the scent of his skin filling Dean's lungs. The hunter had done it to himself, Sammy and other people many times before, but for the first time he felt giddy. Feeling Castiel tense up and brace himself didn't help. After a moment of hesitation Dean put the stitches as fast as he could and before he realized what he was doing he ran his fingertips along the wound in a shy, apologetic caress. Cas trembled and gasped, but it was not the pain. This time it was certainly not the pain.

Dean's heart skipped a beat.

He kept looking into the angel's eyes as he was cleaning two shallow gashes with a cloth soaked in alcohol, then putting gaze pads on them. The angel's shoulders tensed up when Dean ran his fingers outwards the pads' adhesive borders to smoothen them. He did it slowly; he repeated the firm, but gentle stroke inch by inch, not stopping when his hands slid from pad's rubbery surface onto Castiel's skin, feeling it warm up underneath his fingertips. Dean couldn't take his eyes off Castiel's focused face, from his eyes that traced Dean's features with this particular expression of both curiosity and veneration; the expression that would make him look like a lost child if it was not for the wisdom of eons of life and that unearthly devotion that no human was capable of... all behind these eyes that regained the color of the endless shimmering smudge of Milky Way on a summer night's sky.

 Dean could feel Cas's hot breath on his own neck; breath that quickened when Dean finished the job and wrapped his hands around Cas's sides just above his hips like it was a natural thing to do.

Dean moved his gaze from Castiel's eyes onto his slightly parted mouth and for a moment he was calm and determined to take the leap that would change him forever, but in the last moment panic took over; made him stand up in a jolt and nervously run his hand though his hair.

"Damn it..." he hissed under his breath. He heard Castiel sigh, but he couldn't make out if the meaning of it.

After a disturbingly long moment of oppressive silence the angel stood up as well, cradling a bundle of his torn and bloodied clothes.

"I'd better clean them," he said dryly. The hunter gave him a small nod. He turned his head away when his friend had to pass him on his way to the bathroom.

As soon as the door behind Castiel closed, Dean plumped down on a weirdly unstable chair by the table and took a swig from the bottle he put there after cleaning the angel's wounds. He kept absently sipping the whiskey while staring blankly at the sink, trying not to think about what had happened and after a dozen or so minutes the man was surprised to realize that he was mildly drunk. When Castiel emerged from the bathroom still wearing only trousers, with his shirt and trench coat clean and neatly folded, Dean felt a prick of panic at the thought that this cold silence could solidify the air in the room again. He babbled the first thing that came to his mind:

"Hey, how do you do this? Your rags were... Well, rags, and now - spick and span. Does your angelic service package include some hyperlaundry?"

Castiel tilted his head and a spark of amusement brightened up his usually grave face.

"Among all the abilities of an angel you witnessed this is what astonishes you?"

"Well, I've seen some weird Amityville shit like starting fires and blowing people up many times, but divine laundromat is out of keeping with it."

"Influencing inanimate objects is easy," the angel explained simply, as if his answer covered the subject. Dean rolled his eyes.

The angel threw his shirt on, but did not button it, then hung the coat on the back of the other chair, picked something from its pocket and sat down facing Dean. As Castiel's fingers unfolded the hunter recognized the black lash and a glimmer of gold. The string was still bloodied and Castiel started to work it between his fingers to remove the stains. The sight was indeed peculiar. The angel's fingers did not rub the blood off; it disappeared as soon as the stained part of the string slid through the narrow slit between Castiel's fingertips without actually touching them, as if it was held up and moved by an invisible force. Dean would have sworn that there was a hint of boasting in the way Castiel did it in full view of him. For reasons Winchester could never name the sight of sleek, thin thread sliding between Castiel's fingertips teasingly slow and entwining his sinewy fingers made his blood boil.

The angel's expresssion changed when he started to skim the amulet itself; it was a strange mixture of intentness and reverence. Something too meaningful and too humane to be meant for a mere pendant.

"Man, you're putting much heart into it..." Dean's remark was barely audible, something between choked back whisper and gasp that carried these words, but Castiel heard it anyway. He looked straight into Dean's eyes. Again the time warped, making this brief moment seem like hours.

"You told me to take care of it," Castiel's voice had the same sonorous, calming force that astonished Dean earlier. The man briefly closed his eyes, preparing for the leap.

"You really have a thing for me..." he began with no hint of humor.

"I don't know what you mean."

The hunter cleared his throat.

"I mean that you...You have an unbelievable talent of making simple things complicated."

Dean pushed himself away from the table to balance on the chair, looking at Castiel with an uneasy simper.

"The thing is," he lowered his gaze; examined his nails with close attention for a moment "that I am starting to think... these wings of yours...they kinda hit my kink," he looked at his friend again; for one precious moment the he was almost certain, almost at peace, almost safe, "Cas, I...Jesus frickig christ, why does it have to be so difficult?"

The chair rocked forth and front feet landed on the floor with loud thump. The noise made reality get back on its tracks and time race again; the moment was gone. Dean choked back a grunt of exasperation.

"I still don't know what you mean..." Cas repeated. His voice revealed a hint of trepidation, but a corner of his lips budged. Dean frowned.

"You are doing this on purpose, you son of a bitch..."

Ignoring the flash of puzzlement in on Castiel's face he stood up, but swayed slightly and had to lean against the table to stay upright.

"Damnit. I'm too shitfaced to do it right. You know what, Cas?"

He didn't finish. The last thing he saw was Castiel standing up and reaching to Dean's forehead.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When he woke up the room was empty. This sight struck him with a mixture of relief and ache, though he couldn't pinpoint the reason. Memories of the previous night were blurred, which made him wonder, because he rarely got black out drunk and when he did, he felt much worse the next day. He took a long, hot shower that washed off his hangover surprisingly well and when he emerged from the bathroom he felt almost good, save for the dryness in his mouth, but that could be dealt with easily.

He was finishing his second glass of water when the answer to his question started to sprout in his head. Winchester had never been put to sleep by an angel before, but from how Bobby described it Dean could guess that was what had happened.

"Cas, you can't just knock people unconscious when you please..." he chuckled into the air and mortified. Sudden influx of memories hit him along with a fit of throbbing headache. The man had to sit down, barely remembering not to drop the glass.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was irrational, ridiculous, childish, but he felt that everyone knew. He blushed under the questioning glance of a middle-aged, unkempt lady that took the keys when he was checking out. Never before had he left a motel in such a rush.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sam seemed much thinner and paler than last time. Dark stubble and strands of long, unkempt, greasy hair that stuck to his cheekbones and temples made his face look almost like a skull. Cas reasoned it was strange given that merely a few weeks had passed since they last met, but he somehow couldn't afford to be surprised. He would have sworn it had been ages; he felt weary as well.

Bobby, on the other hand looked better, at least physically. Castiel did not want to wonder how devastated the former hunter was. All he saw was a thorny, cold mass of bitterness.

"So how is he?" Sam asked, sitting back in the sofa. Even now sat tipped to one side, pushed into an armrest, leaving place for someone who was never to come.

"To be honest, I'm not sure. He looks all right, but in the end Dean always looks like he is all right."

Sam huffed with frustration.

"Look, I think he might suspect something," the angel added after a while of consideration. Bobby bridled:

"Oh, you bet he suspects somethin'. He ain't a dummy."

"What do we do?"

The oldest hunted let out an sneering snort. Young Winchester bit his lips, leaned forward and rested his chin on hands folded as if to pray.

"It's too late now, anyway. You can tell him if he asks, but I'm sure he won't. Anyway, Cas, don't take it personal. Whatever you do Dean will eventually find a way to blame you if he wants to. That's just how he is. If he gets angry, he gets angry."

"Are you tellin' me you're gonna make the same mistake again, you idjit?"

Cas kicked his heels uneasily. He was just beginning to learn the intricacies of human body language, but as soon as he grasp a certain behavior, it started to affect him. Standing before these two was disturbingly close to interrogation.

"Much as I hate lying, I believe Sam is right," he said, "Who knows what Dean could do if he learned that I have been working with you. He musn't be left alone. Not now. Keeping you two connected through me is our only shot."

Sam nodded with pretended cheer.

"Right. You're an angel anyway. A messenger. You're doing your job. That's... That's a good thing. "

"At least you'll earn your keep," the oldest hunter grunted. Castiel sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Please. It's the least I can do."

"You're good for nothin' anyway."

Castiel gave the man a pained look.

"Look, I wish I had the power to heal you. I would have had it if I hadn't joined you. We all payed a price. I am sorry I failed, but again, we all failed..."

Knots of muscles appeared on Bobby's cheeks. For a moment he looked like he was about to snap, but he just shook his head and rolled his wheelchair out of the room. Sam and Castiel sighed with grief almost in unison.

Castiel pulled a heavy armchair and sat down, facing the hunter. He gave Wichested a long, sorrowful, brooding look.

"He's visiting you, isn't he?" he asked out of the blue. Sam was a bit startled, but he answered, somehow absolutely sure who Castiel was talking about:

"Yeah, he does. But it's all right. I can manage. I think I can manage."

"Another Winchester..."

There was a moment of silence, but it was not this awkward silence that sometimes fell between Castiel and Dean; silence that strained and withered the air, calling for answers. This time it was good, familiar and warm. The angel could sense Sam unruffling, relaxing.

"How do you know?" Winchester asked finally, sitting back again.

"I know this look. This fear of downtime, empty moments. I hadn't known Lucifer before he was locked, but I know other archangels. I know what they can do to you."

Sam frowned; after a while his expression changed rapidly from confusion to pity.

"Damn it...Right. Who was it?"

Castiel's voice was even more wooden and ragged when he said simply:

"Raphael."

The hunter let out a heavy sigh. He looked around; his gaze wandered around the ceiling, fireplace, slid from one piece of furniture to another, as if Sam was struggling to find words. It was Castiel, however, who broke the silence.

"Angels... They don't understand pain. They don't know it. All they can do is take it from humans, try to mimic it. They... we... Only that I now I think I understand..." he licked his lips and shook his head pensively "When you observe this pain from the outside it seems overwhelming, absolute. You wonder why anyone would chose life that is burdened with it. You wonder how it is possible to pick oneself up, walk, talk, dream or laugh after such anguish. They cannot grasp the concepts of hope or sacrifice, or love. Of anything that makes humans strong enough to endure it. Of anything that makes humans so precious... so marvelous. This is his weakness. Remember that he does not understand."

Sam stared ahead absently for a moment, then he straightened up, patted his thighs as if he intended to walk away and brush off Castiel's words with his usual smile and nod. He stopped. He let his gaze met Castiel's, he let the angel feel his gratitude and pity. An answer to Cas's silent plead for help.

""Was it very bad?"

"Very."

"Damnit, Cas, I'm sorry. I forgot you have your limits too."

"It's only natural. After all I am not a human. More like what you call a creature. I understand it's difficult for you to treat me as equal."

This time Sam laughed heartily. Quiet, bitter, but heartily.

"You do realize that of all the people you could say it to, I'm the least reasonable choice."

Their gazes met and for a briefest moment Castiel had this fluttering, warm feeling he could not yet identify.

"Take care of him."

"You know I will."

Sam's eyebrow quirked; he examined Castiel's face attentively, then lowered his gaze and slowly nodded.

"Right. Right. I should know that. I know you will."


	4. 4

  
The pub had everything it took to make Dean feel familiar and secure. It was shady (in both meanings of this word), cheap and nasty. Thin threads of white cigarette smoke wafted below the nicotine-stained ceiling, making the green plastic lampshades and red leatherette seats look like in an old photograph.

Dean needed this stop; he kept convincing himself that the real reason for stopping, renting a room and going to a pub was the pitiless cold, making it impossible to spend the night in Impala parked in a rest area, but deep down he knew that what he really needed was a drink and a chat. With anyone. About anything.

Not to mention that sleeping in the car did not feel so safe anymore; not without Sam by his side. Theoretically Dean knew that Castiel would probably answer a prayer if Winchester was in real danger, but calling him felt like the last thing the hunter wanted; he feared it even more than an unexpected encounter with a skinwalker or werewolf.

Three days spent without sharing a word with a living soul almost drove him crazy. He managed to hold up as long as he had a job to do: searching graveyards, looking for heirs of an old hunter family that had given up hunting generations earlier. Ten desecrated repositories and ten false alarms later, on his way back to Ellen’s he could no longer stand the buzz of thoughts swarming in his head.

Dean sat by the bar (noticing with contentment that it was shabby and imbued with the smell of beer) and order a double. He downed it in one swig, then gestured the bartender to pour another.

The man - looking like a seedy, skinny version of Wolverine with Billy Gibbons and Dusty Hill tattooed on left arm - gave Dean a leery glance, quirking one eyebrow.

“That’s good scotch, man. If you gonna gulp it like that let me pour you some vodka.”

The hunter sighed. He tilted the heavy tumbler glass and balanced it on the edge of its bottom, staring at it broodily and speaking slowly:

“Listen, I will drink my booze as I wish. Just pour me a double.”

After getting his drink, however, he took a sip and sniggered bitterly.

“Here, see me drinking like a sir...”

“Tough day, huh?” the bartender unruffled and leant against the counter. There were not many other people to serve except for two truck-driver-type guys sipping their beers and a brunette wearing mini skirt and goth jewelry, sitting at the far end of the counter.

“Tough life,” Winchester snorted.

“Yeah, sticks out a mile. You look like you ran over a dog,” the man rose his chin, “c’mon, spill your guts. Looks like you need it.”

“Man, this is not your usual ‘bummed out dude by the bar’ thing...”

The bartender rested both his elbows on the counter and hunched, staring right into Dean’s eyes.

“Try me.”

This time Dean’s laugh was low, guttural, almost insane; a growl bubbling deep in his chest. That was a phrase he had used so often to make a witness speak; back when his job was really saving people and not trying to avert the apocalypse he had caused; back when he worked together with Sammy. Now he was all on his own, having abandoned his brother and alienated the only ally he had by a stupid drunken move.

Somehow this last thought cut its way from his consciousness to his vocal chords. Before he managed to check himself, he said:

“You know, there was a friend of mine...I was drunk and...”

The bartender curled his lips. Apparently Dean was not going to continue, so he clucked his tongue and said:

“So this is this ‘i kissed a boy and i liked it’ stuff. Whatever.”

Winchester choked on his whisky.

“I never said it was a dude.”

“You din’t, but you kinda have the vibe.”

“Fuck you...” Dean hissed with badly masked embarrassment, but he was not really angry. By then he had already decided he liked the bartender.

Seeing a pained expression on his client’s face the guy added “Fine with me. I don’t care. Go on if it makes you feel better.”

“It’s not that he’s a dude. It’s that people who get too close to me...” he huffed, amused by his own words “damnit, if it’s not chick-flick then I don’t know what is.”

The hunter’s acumen kicked in; he noticed the pseudo-goth girl staring at him. Faking an itch he checked whether the flask of holy water and the knife in his jacket were easily accessible.

“So what about that guy?” a question made Dean turn his attention back to the bartender.

“Nothing. We haven’t spoken since.”

The man nodded pensively.

“Good friend?”

The answer that popped into Dean’s mind made his stomach cramp as if it was clenched by a cold fist. He had never considered it before, never spared a thought on the matter. Now that the question was voiced he suddenly realized how much he might have lost.

Apparently his bafflement was enough of an answer. The bartender just filled Dean’s glass and commented softly:

“Man, it must suck.”

Dean tensed up. The pseudo-goth girl was approaching him with an uneasy simper on her pale face. The hunter could not recognize her exact age under her tacky slap, but her body that the tight, black clothes with lots of lace revealed rather than covered seemed young. He sighed. Nothing worse than a demon in a body of young female. Dean had always had problem killing this type.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation” she began with greedy, blatant cocquetry indicating that she was older than Dean had assessed. Or at least much more experienced. “It seems that someone has a self-determination issues. Maybe I could help?”

Dean gave her a once-over. He did not try to hide it and she did not try to hide the fact that she did not feel offended. The bartender rolled his eyes with a huff and got back to cleaning glasses.

“Well, why not. I’m Dean, and you?”

“Jezebel.”

Dean’s fingernails dug into the wood of the counter, softened by years of soaking with beer and detergents. It sounded just too biblical... He took a deep breath and did his best to convince himself that a real demon would not introduce herself like that.

“So, Jezebel... perhaps we could get to know each other a little better? I guess you have a defined taste in music,” despite her obvious impatience Dean continued, looking straight into her eyes, “what do you think about Ben Christo?”

She rolled her eyes, but they remained normal.

“Really? Are we gonna talk about music? I thought you’d like to talk about something more... personal...”

  
=============================================================

  
“Wh...what is this?” Jezebel asked with badly masked fear as soon as the door behind her back closed and Dean flipped the light on. “What! Is this?!” she added half angry, half panicked when he failed to react.

He swore under his breath when he realized what she meant. He had ceased to worry about what motel owners would think years before and thought of securing a motel room as something natural, especially given that compensation for damage didn’t make any difference to someone using fake credit cards.

The hunter never supposed that a few symbols badly painted with blood could scare off a goth. Apparently they did. He just sighed with jadedness as the girl fumbled behind her back in desperate attempts to find the doorknob. When she finally let herself out, Dean would have sworn that the gust he felt on his cheeks was caused by something else than rapidly opening and closing the door.

He heard Jezebel yelp in terror right outside the room. His hand clasped on Ruby’s knife instinctively.

When he heard this ragged, wooden voice instead of relief he felt another pang of terror that gave him a twinkle of vertigo.

“Tell him to let me in,” Castiel insisted in his usual unsympathetic way, oblivious to the reason of the girl’s panic.

“I’m not going back there. He’s mental! How... How did you get here?” she cried out.

The next level of Castiel’s persuasion must have been something serious. Dean heard an urging, rough “please” and in a few seconds the door to his room opened to show Jezebel and the angel in a trench coat behind her back. She was curled up in fear. He had this expression that Dean would jokingly call “his smitey face”. Except that this time it was meant for Winchester.

The time froze. Shreds of the hunter’s attention trained to stay focused on detecting threats barely registered Jezebell cautiously moving aside and running away. The remainder was fixed on the growing ice-cold lump in his gut.

“Break the sigils. Now.” came an authoritative request. When the angel was handing Winchester the blade their gazes locked for a moment. 

As soon as Dean ran the blade across every sigil Castiel was by his side, growling:

“What was that supposed to mean?”

“Listen, buddy, I was drunk... I am sorry, but...” Dean floundered, trying to avoid the angel’s glare. It was menacing, but not devoid of a grain of his usual inquisitiveness, which made it even more disturbing.

“You weren’t drunk when you bought lamb’s blood and painted these marks. What did you think you were doing?”

Dean froze. Castiel meant the sigils. For a moment he felt that his head was absolutely empty, cut off from every stimulus. The sudden discrepancy between unexpected relief and inexplicable disappointment made his thoughts stutter.

“Where did you get them? Didn’t the same source include information on how they work?”

Dean just mumbled sheepishly:

“A-Angelproofing. Hey, they worked, right?”

“Your brother was right when he said that you didn’t read enough. They obscure the room from angels. It means the room appears like a black spot. Angels notice these things; we are trained to notice. How long do you think would it take Zachariah’s minions or Anna to stumble upon such a spot and start to wonder why it has been angelproofed?”

Winchester felt a wave of nasty heat creep up his spine, making his nape burn. It was fueled by shame and anger; the mention of other angels wanting to use him for their purposes reminded him that he was in fact just a pawn in heaven’s game. Even if the way Castiel wanted to play it was more consistent with Dean’s own plan it did not mean they were really allies. Or friends. He ground out:

“I would have managed Zachariah.”

“Of course. Just like you managed Zachariah in your father’s storeroom. How many times do you have to get yourself into trouble before you learn anything?”

Dean straightened up; his anger was swelling, close to boiling over.

“Since when are you watching over me? You said you were not going to perch on my shoulder. Bigger picture crap. Remember?”

“I thought I wouldn’t have to.”

The man took a step forward, noticing with mean satisfaction that Castiel responded by backing away, hunching, somehow becoming smaller and less formidable.

“You don’t. I survived hell, I can survive your buddies’ crappy ersatz torture. I can stand up to Michael. You know I can. I’d rather die than say yes to him, so your little anti-armageddon plan is safe. Nothing to worry about... Unless...”

“Dean!”

“Unless you care.” Dean squinted and took the final step; Castiel could not back away any more with his back against a wall. The hunter leaned over his friend intimidatingly. There was a wavering darkness creeping from peripheries of his sight, enclosing Castiel’s face like a black halo, obscuring everything else from Dean’s sight and consciousness. The only certain thing Dean could fish out from the mayhem of his mind was the awareness of how cold it suddenly got.

“You know I do,” the angel answered softer; there was a grain of helpless plea in his voice.

“This is not what I...”

“This is not the right time. Zachariah can be here any minute,” the angel hissed, “and he won’t be alone.”

“Dammit...”

Castiel bit his lower lip, already scanning the room with tenseness.

“Leave this place immediately. Find another town to stay.”

“Cas, ever heard of DUI? I’ve downed like four doubles.”

The angel just sighed and pressed his hand to Dean’s cheek. A flare of white light dazed the hunter for a moment. When he regained his sight Castiel was gone. Unpleasant chill tingled in the trail of his hand on Dean’s cheek, as if his skin longed for this touch, as if he became more sensitive to cold now that he knew warmth.

======================================================================

With his bag not yet unpacked it took Dean less than five minutes to shove all his stuff back to Impala’s trunk, leave keys and cash on the reception’s counter and hit the road. He drove off alone, but before he passed the town’s boundaries, Castiel was sitting next to him. He handed Dean the flask with remainder of lamb’s blood the hunter had forgotten in the motel.

When he spoke Winchester didn’t have to look to know that corner of Castiel’s mouth budged in an attempt of smile and the look in his eyes softened, melted into something akin to this angrily-tender, grousing expression Dean knew so well.

“Next time when you want to make a room a bit harder to penetrate without turning it into a beacon for angels, just smear the blood on top and sides of the doorframe. And read the Bible. I mean it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. For a while he tried to come up with a witty remark, but he resigned and asked simply:

“Any troubles?”

“I took a look around the neighborhood and cleaned the room just in case. I don’t think they managed to locate you.”  
  
“And you? How did you find me?”

There was a moment of hesitation, perhaps even abashment before Castiel said softly:

“I always know where you are. You pray nearly all the time...” after a moment he added in a strange haste “don’t wory. I recognize when you don’t really want me to come.”

Dean looked at his friend. The stare of blue eyes fixed on his own made Dean forget the road. The touch of Castiel’s fingertips on Dean’s elbow was timid, fidgety, barely noticeable. Too insecure to be meaningless.

“Dean, call if you need me. Anytime. No matter the reason.”

The next second Dean was alone, driving on an empty road, trying not to mind the bitter knot forming in his throat and stinging of his eyes. They were becoming misty, but it must have been caused by how little he had slept lately. The dull pain he felt in his stomach must have been a side effect of Castiel sobering him up.

Dean pressed the pedal to the metal and let the night engulf him and his car.


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as the first handful of pebbles hit the box's metal lid Dean felt a menacing presence behind his back. He kicked the rest of dirt into the hole and turned around.

There were two of them. Both looked like bouncers from an expensive whorehouse - bald, bulky, dressed in cheap gray suits. The hunter winced. He had hoped he would meet attractive women. Admittedly demon's strength had little do to with his meatsuit, but slender girls were always more pleasant to wrestle.

The demons stopped just right outside the big devil's trap painted around the place where Dean had buried the box.

"What do you want?" the taller one of them asked, rising his chin.

"Information."

"The name of the guy your wife is cheating on you with? Lottery numbers?" the other demon mocked.

Winchester rolled his eyes and snickered.

"Come on, guys. Don't pretend you don't know who I am," he spoke while slowly circumventing his opponents "and I simply wanna compete on an even playing field. I need to know your new boss."

"We don't do this kind of deals," the first demon answered curtly.

"Perhaps you'll change your mind when I name my price."

Dean stepped carefully, so as not to move gravel with his feet too much. He was almost by the safety line he had marked for himself with two darker pebbles when the taller demon looked around uneasily and frowned. He started towards Dean, who reached the line with one desperate leap. The demon jerked back after hitting an invisible wall.

"What the..."

Dean laughed out triumphantly.

"The ground is pretty compact under this dirt on top. Especially after the summer heat wave," he clarified with a wide gesture, "it took me a while, but it was worth the effort."

Demons shared a nervous glance. Dean walked towards Impala and opened in its trunk, still shmoozing:

"It also took me a while to figure out how to carry out the next phase of negotiation. Then I had this awesome idea..." he pulled out a pneumo gun, leaned it against the bumper and and fumbled for sleep darts. He grinned when he heard the demons gasp in fear, "Yeah. Darts with holy water. Ain't I a genius?"

"I bet you did not see this coming..." this new voice was raucous and nasty.

Dean turned around, startled and angry. Another demon was standing right by devil's trap - the real one Dean had drawn on compact ground and covered in gravel - holding a stick exactly above its edge and looking at the hunter with amusement mixed with curiosity in his lively eyes.

"Nice contraption you have here..." he leaned over the trap, cocking his head and swaying the stick in a way that was playful, almost cabaret, "It would be a shame if someone..." he sent Dean a simper "...did this," the demon pushed the stick deep into the ground and dragged it across the line.

These two did not run towards the hunter; somehow they were by him in no time. Dean managed to dodge first blows, but then a tug of invisible force dragged him along the gravel and threw him against a tree on the roadside.

"Cas, if you hear me..." he whispered in haste when he had fallen onto dry, tall grass, moving his limbs slightly to feel any broken bones "now's the perfect time to drop by."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Castiel never paid much attention to details when he was observing Earth in his true form. Perhaps he was too preoccupied with matters of greater importance than the scent of air or the sound of rain; perhaps he was too self-righteous and proud; perhaps he was simply too large. Millions of years slid before his eyes, differences between centuries were blurred, individual lives merged into one buzzing, glimmering mass and he could see only general direction in which it crawled slowly through millennia; their sluggish pilgrimage interrupted from time to time by a sudden change and then resumed. The invention of electricity mattered less than East-West Schism. The inventor of fire was so insignificant that nobody cared to remember his name, while every child was taught the name of the inventor of sin. Columbus, Copernicus, Edison, Benz... They were like moss growing on wooden beams constituting the framework of God's eternal temple. Bigger picture. It was always about the bigger picture.

Of course he admired humanity as a whole. It wasn't until he was ordered to find that single soul in Hell that he began to discern differences between people. There was something mysterious in the way he did not even have to search for the righteous man. His soul glinted among others like a pearl in mud. From the moment he picked it up he was spellbound.

Then he spent a year with Jimmy, constantly feeling his restless, persistent spirit grinding against his own. The man seemed small, blind, so inexperienced and short-lived. Nonetheless his will sometimes flared up, bedazzling the angel. It always reached out in the same direction: Amelia and Claire. Jimmy was not great enough to love every human being as much as he loved these two, but perhaps his greatness was in loving them the way he did. This love was different from the thoughtful piety Castiel knew. It was fierce, inconsumable, absolute. The human was not brave; the angel could tell that Jimmy was terrified, exhausted. Yet he made an impossible choice when there was no choice at all. Somehow when there was no power, no strength, no wisdom, love was enough.

Jimmy was gone, but Castiel still felt these surges of will. It changed its focal point and the angel was slowly learning to recognize it as his own. It flared up every time Dean was in danger in a form of fiery denial. Sometimes it came alive like a pleasant, warm spark when they - Dean and him - shared a smile or when the man brought a detail of God's creation to Castiel's attention and they admired it quietly for a while. Dean was always the first to disregard any manifestation of greatness or sanctity, but there was something miraculous in the way he worshiped Castiel's father without even knowing he did, by embracing and enjoying every trifle like a good song or nice weather; by loving life blindly and with all his heart.

Having spent months with the older Winchester Castiel learned to pay attention to such details. The day was warm, but the in shade of red and golden tree crowns lurked the cold of incoming winter. The angel was standing in full light, indulging in the warmth of rays of setting sun on his skin and listening to soft sough of dry grass swayed by gentle wind. He had come to the meeting point early on purpose; trying to avert the Apocalypse did not exactly allow for much downtime, but waiting for a messenger from Heaven was a perfect excuse to enjoy a sunny afternoon and contemplate.

A violent tug of someone's will was almost painful. It did not take Castiel long to identify Dean's soul.

_Cas, if you hear me, now's the perfect time to drop by._

Dean's distress was like a beacon; there was no doubt about location. The angel was just taking off when he felt another tug from a different direction and a different soul. The first call was angry, impatient. The second was desperate.

_Cas, please. If you hear me... Cas..._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was too much. Her inhumane howl and roar of flames engulfing the ceiling were something Sam could take - they had replayed in his nightmares for years - but when they were accompanied by his laughter, it was too much. Especially now that Sam knew the reason why his mother and his beloved woman had to die.

They would make him stronger. They would give him the love he needed to hold on.

Lucifer bowed over Sam's bed. It was dark; Winchester had never seen such darkness. It seemed that something was sucking the light out of the room. Nick's lacerated face hovering above Sam's pillow was the only thing he could see.

"How is it gonna be, Sammy?" the devil whispered with a lewd leer.

"Don't call me that!" the hunter yelled. Lucifer made a shushing gesture.

"Hush, Sammy, we don't want to startle your brother..." he froze for a moment, then laughed out. "Ooops, I forgot your brother isn't here. He left you because he doesn't trust you...Yes, now I remember. He left you because he feared you would hold him back and expose him to danger. Just like you imperiled your mother and Jessica. I wonder if they liked what you did to them?"

_He felt it. Not only the pain and cold when life was draining from his veins; not only the force pressing him to the ceiling. He could feel her fear and an upsurge of hope when he saw himself from 5 years ago enter the room; her despair when he walked to the kitchen without looking up. She counted on him. She tracked him with sore, bloodshot eyes, convinced that all it took to save her was for him to look up. He felt her anger and panic when she was struggling for breath, fighting not only the invisible fist clenched around her throat, but also her own tears. Then fire engulfed him, making his skin sizzle and crack, filling his lungs with flames._

Sam closed his eyes and fell heavily onto the pillow.

"Did you like my fireshow?" Lucifer whispered right into his ear.

As soon as he gathered himself, Sam started to feel around his bed frantic search for his phone. He knocked it from the nightstand and heard a dry snap when it hit the floor. The devil snickered, picked it up and examined carefully. Just like Winchester had expected, the flap was broken.

"You want to call him?" Lucifer acted surprised, and he acted bad on purpose. "He wouldn't care. Sammy, think. I'm not even here. I'm just in your mind. You're a big boy. Your dear brother will not waste his precious time on lulling you to sleep...Especially given that you are asleep already, and I'm not letting you wake up. This phone is not real. Nothing is real. No one can hear you. By the way, did you know that in your sleep time runs faster? Just like in Hell."

He stood up and walked around Sam's bed. Even now his silhouette was all Sam could see. The rest of the room, the bed, his own hands were submerged in impenetrable darkness.

"Oh, I forgot you wouldn't know that. Ask Dean if you ever see him again. He knows hell very, very well..." Nick frowned theatrically "did I mention that he went there for you? Do you want to know if he was having fun?"

_Growl of a hellhound resounded a split second before Sam felt a yank and a stab of blinding pain in his thigh. The next moment hellhound's claws dug deep into his chest._

"Cas, please," he hissed, fighting for breath, choking on his own blood "If you hear me, Cas...Wake me up..."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He scrambled up, unsheathing Ruby's knife. Dean saw the younger of two bouncer-style demons rush towards him, he dodged him in the last possible moment, grabbed the demon's arm to use his own momentum to throw him onto the ground before he knelt on the demon's back and dug the knife deep between his shoulder blades.

The older demon pushed Dean aside, back onto the road; the knife was left in the corpse.

"Cas, for fuck's sake..." Winchester ground out.

He shook off, rolled over to lie prone and took a quick look around. The knife was close, but Dean would have to break through a shallow ditch. He scrambled to all four, still observing the demon, surged up and broke into sprint towards Impala. Without slowing down he grabbed a handful of and darts, slid on the gravel to crouch behind the car and bit through one of the darts, spilling holy water onto the edge of his sleeve.

Winchester did it just in time to jump onto the demon that ran after him. Dean gripped him from behind and pushed the wet part of the sleeve into the demon's mouth with the heel of his hand. Among the demon's muffled scream and sizzle of the burnt skin Dean muttered right into the demon's ear:

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica..."

The demon fell down to his knees; Dean sank as well, still clutching his opponent's arms and jaw and kneeling on his calves.

"Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae perditionis venenum propinare..."

The demon started to flounder around, trying to buck Dean off. The hunter managed to maneuver another dart with his free hand and teeth. He stabbed the demon, waited out his howl and continued in haste:

"Vade, Satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei,"

"Stop!" yelled the third demon, snapping his fingers.

Dean fell face down onto the road when his opponent disappeared.

"Stop," the demon repeated softer, adjusting his collar with piqued, but still dignified countenance, "before you exorcise me by accident. That would be most unfortunate for both of us."

The demon kept a reasonable distance, allowing Dean to stand up and regain composure. The hunter gave him an once-over and took a step back, towards the Impala's still opened trunk. The demon snapped his fingers again and the lid flopped with a loud thump.

"Please, end this tomfoolery. We are civilized, are we not?"

"What do you want?" Winchester snapped.

"Dean, Dean, Dean..." the demon clucked his tongue and shook his head with amusement, "You're not much of a gentleman. Luckily for both of us, you seem to be a decent hunter. I think you'll do just fine."

"Just fine what?" Dean cocked his head and frowned, faintly aware that his question made little sense.

"I am not sure whether you realize that our interests coincide, at least as far as Mr. New King Of Hell is concerned. Admittedly, assassination does not exactly mix with remaining inconspicuous which I prefer for the time being, but I am willing to provide you with certain assets to ensure nigh elimination of our common foe."

Dean opened his mouth to speak and failed to close it though he could not come up with any response. The demon rolled his eyes with a sigh, then took a step forward to poked Dean's foot with his stick. He rose his eyebrows and made each sound very clear when he said slowly:

"Me. Give. You. The. Colt."

"Wh..why?"

"So you can kill Lucifer, you moron!" the demon lost it for a moment, but soon he took a deep breath and flattened out his jacket, "First, hovewer, I need to secure my own... as they say... ass. You took down my poor minions adroitly, but taking down His Worshipfulness requires wee bit more than brute force. Prove that you are a big game hunter and then you will get your toy."

Dean, who had managed to gather his wits by the time the demon finished his stilted speech, asked dryly:

"What do you want me to do?"

The demon snapped his fingers and a piece of paper appeared in his hand. He handed it to the hunter with a small nod.

"Pestilence. Incapacitate him and summon me to the crossroads."

The next second Dean was staring into the flaxen plain of dry stubble, right through the place where the demon had been, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change. Despite autumn wind he felt one stronger gust; he winced and swore under his breath, wondering why Cas always chose to appear behind his back.

"You're late," he snapped.

"I know. I am sorry, Dean," the well-known, low, ragged voice did not reveal any emotions.

The hunter turned around, gesturing widely and cocking his head. Shock had ebbed and Dean was slowly realizing the gravity of the situation and consequences he would have to face if he had been less lucky.

"The hell, dude? I could have died here."

"I said I was sorry. I had my reasons."

Dean huffed.

"Yeah. You always have your reasons. You said you would come when I call. You promised."

The angel hung his head. His arms rose, then slumped indicating that he failed to build up courage to say something. Then he froze for a moment and looked around alertly, squinting and frowning. Whatever he was sensing, his resemblance to a dog picking up scent made Winchester snicker despite his pique.

"Who was it?" the angel asked sharply, squashing every spark of amusement in Dean.

"Well, we weren't properly introduced, but I bet it was our mysterious mister Blues."

"And you summoned him without telling me?" it was the same look of amused annoyance; of someone helpless against a rowdy child, but proud at the same time "Dean, I thought we got this over with. Why did you even come here without any backup?"

"Well, I thought I had backup..." Winchester said a bit softer, having realized that the angel had a point. Castiel sighed, made these few steps that separated them and pressed his hand to Dean's forehead with an expression of grandfatherly weariness that was so humane and hilarious at the same time that the hunter laughed under his breath.

"Here. Broken rib, muscle contusions, strained tendons..."

"All right, all right. Quit grouching, Oscar. We both crapped out, OK?"

Castiel took a step back and gave Dean a quick once-over, as if he was assessing his work. The hunter moved his arms and neck, enjoying his new physical state. He figured that Cas had healed more injuries than he had named. Effects of not getting enough sleep and spending hours behind the wheel - back pain, eye soreness and headache - were gone too.

Their looks met and for a moment Dean had an impression that a small, tentative smile flashed on Cas's face. Winchester mirrored it, suddenly feeling light-hearted and at ease. For the first time in months he saw a glimmer of hope. He had just made a huge step forward in search for the Colt. He was safe. As far as he knew Sam was safe. Cas was safe. Dean felt an inexplicable upsurge of simple, childish joy.

"You know what? I like you..." he said out of the blue, "You're a nutbag, but I like you."

A corner of Cas's mouth twitched; the angel cast his eyes down, seemingly struggling not to let his face reveal too much. When he looked back at Dean he was composed again, but there was still a twinkle in his eye.

"Was it worth it at least?" he said, pointing the mess near Impala's trunk with his head.

Dean snapped out of this state of dreamy enthrallment. He took a glance at the piece of paper the demon had given him. It was a map. He decided he would deal with it later.

"Yeah, actually I have awesome news. I need to call Bobby."


	6. Chapter 6

"It's gotten so cold, huh?" Sam asked and from his tone Castiel could tell it was only something one says to break the silence; he walked hunched, with his hands in his pockets, but it was not because of the cold. The hunter was looking down, scuffing his feet. In the lurid white light of streetlamps his skin looked almost cyanic and his eyes seemed void and lifeless.

"I believe so." Cas answered blankly. He could notice signs of temperature getting low - small white puffs of steam when they breathed out and crisp needles of frost formnig on puddles - even though it did not bother him at all. He could tell it bothered Sam and it certainly did not take much to weaken someone in Sam's condition.

Walking him from the pub he worked at to the sordid bachelor pad he was renting become Castiel's daily routine. It was the most dangerous time of night and the angel was glad he could at least protect his friend from common mugging or being hit by a drunk driver, though he was distressingly aware he could not protect Sam from what came next, when Winchester was left one-to-one with his nightmares.

"Perhaps you should change workplace. Nights are getting colder. You'll get sick if you walk home every night..." Castiel began, though they had had this conversation a few times before. What he really wanted to achieve was seeing Sam's face when he answered:

"I'm fine, Cas. It's better if I sleep in the daytime. I... Well, he... You know. It's better."

The hunter seemed more troubled and nervous than last time he mentioned his encounters with Lucifer. The angel sighed.

"You should not be alone. Perhaps Dean..."

"No!" Sam snapped and immediately shut his mouth tight, gritting his teeth. His shoulders tensed up, but Castiel could not tell if it was because of the cold or nerves.

A patrol car passed them slowly; its wheels made an ugly, slurping sound when it drove through a large puddle of rainwater mixed with fallen leaves and trash.

"How is he?" Winchester asked softer after a while.

"Better. He is not really hunting. He focused on finding the Colt. Now that we know what to do I believe we can be optimistic."

The hunter nodded without much enthusiasm.

"Yeah, I know. How..." suddenly he turned to look Castiel in the eyes; the mask of apathy broke, revealing desperate, vulnerable hope for a split second "How long do you think it's gonna take?"

"I don't know. He's doing his best. I'm doing my best."

"Right," the spark of hope in Sam's look faded.

"Sam, you should not live like this. I mean it. I could try to talk to Dean."

"No." the younger brother repeated with the same finality.

"You wouldn't have to hunt together. Just meet from time to time."

"No!" this time it was an outright yell. Silence that fell after this outburst was suffocating.

They stopped, having reached the door to Sam's block.

"Look, Cas. I've done enough harm. Dean is right. I am a liability."

"You are family," Castiel looked his friends in the eyes, trying not to let his own fear and misery show; to somehow fill Sam with hope or at least consolation. The man pursed his lips and turned away, nodding half-heartedly.

The angel let out a deep, resigned sigh and pressed two fingers to Sam's forehead. It was the least he could do: heal effects of rapid weight loss and dehydration, and a developing viral infection. There was more pity than gratitude in the look Winchester gave him. They both knew how pointless these little gestures were.

"I'll spend the weekend at Bobby's. I promise," Sam gathered himself and said somewhat more briskly and Castiel immediately knew that the moment of sincerity was gone, "You can always drop by and check on me. Meanwhile," he let out a quiet, a bit jerky huff; the way his hands shook while he combed his oily hair with his fingers did not escape Castiel's attention, "I gotta work, gotta... keep myself busy."

Their looks met and for a briefest moment Cas saw the same diffident hope.

"Just hurry up with the Colt, OK?"

He ran up the stairs, leaving Castiel alone on an empty street, surrounded by darkness scythed with rays of hard light of streetlamps and tinted by dawn. The angel looked in the direction where city skyline was appearing against grayish sky. The panic he had been squashing for weeks and feeling it in a form of a cold weight deep down his chest mounted, bubbled up, making him want to scream. And he screamed; not on physical level, but in his thoughts reaching out in a desperate plead, searching the void for the one who would listen.

"Father..." his lips moved noiselessly in concert with the cry of his spirit "Daddy, please..."

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

_The impact made the crossguard bash into the side of Dean's palm. It should have at least made the angel slant, but there was no reaction other than this barely discernible twitch. He pushed harder, pulling the knife down with the weight of his body, feeling Castiel's flesh budge until the blade met firm resistance of a bone._

_Dean stared into Castiel's impossibly blue eyes, still holding the knife. The cold metal ground against his hand when the angel's chest heaved, he felt Castiel's pulse reflected by slight wiggle of the hilt. He felt warmth emanating from his body._

_He let go of the knife, perplexed by how this contact made him feel. There was something intimate in it, something sacrilegious._

_Next minute the ground rocked beneath his feet; Dean tumbled down and blinding light hit his sore eyes. There was a bright tinkle of glass..._

...and Ellen's knees next to his face as he was scrambling to all fours, tangled in a greasy blanket, with a heavy pillow stuck between his head and shoulder for unknown reasons.

"Here, sleepin' beauty," something hard, wet and cool touched his temple. He shuddered. It took him a while to fight off remnants of his dream and realize he had fallen from the sofa in Ellen's house. He reached for the glass. Cool pilsner was exactly what he needed. The stinging bitterness of hop followed by a cold wave fanning out through his veins woke him up immediately.

"Is it time yet?", he asked hoarsely, having climbed up to sit on the sofa. It was still dark, but they planned to set off before dawn, so he couldn't tell.

Ellen sat next to him.

"No. W'need to talk."

The woman rested her elbows on her knees and hunched.

"I don't think it's a good idea to leave Jo outside," she stated woodenly.

"Ellen, we've discussed it. It's the safest part of the job."

"Exactly. If you haven't noticed yet Jo aint the best at stayin' safe. Perhaps it'll be better to take her with us. At least we could watch her."

"And who secures the retreat route?"

The woman let out a heavy, a bit jerky sigh.

"Sam."

"No. No way"

As much as he longed for his brother when he was on his own, mentioning Sam in Dean's presence was to the older Winchester like a red rag to a bull. His angry exclamation apparently rose Ellen's hackles too.

"Listen, I don't care that you two princesses can't get along," she said quietly, but with a cold, threatening edge in her voice, "Sam's a good hunter and we need every pair of hands."

"No. No way. If you don't trust Jo with this job, I don't trust Sam either. He can't be anywhere near demons. Do I need to remind you who unleashed this whole shitstorm?"

"Think about it. It's not too late to call him. We could meet him on the spot. Dean, we need him," Ellen urged.

Dean frowned and cocked his head.

"How do you know if it is not too late if you don't know where he is? Ellen, did you... Did you talk to him?"

"Nobody is taking sides here, boy. I will talk to whomever the hell I want."

Before Dean could get angry there was a soft sough. He could feel the cool tingling on the back of his neck and down his spine as usually when Castiel was standing behind his back. Dean just grunted with exasperation and took another swig of bear, rising his eyebrows.

"What's up, huggy bear?"

Cas circumvented the sofa and leaned against the fireplace, facing his friend. Winchester snorted angrily, having found himself between the angel and Ellen:

"Seriously?"

"Dean, she is right," God's messenger horned in.

The hunter gave his friend a withering glare. Castiel crossed his arms.

"You have always had a penchant for precarious actions, but this is downright madness. We are not up against a demon. This is Pestilence."

"Yeah," Ellen horned in "perhaps the name 'horseman of Apocalypse' implies somethin', right?"

"Hey," Dean opened his arms "we've got Smitey McSmiter with us. One regular earthbred dude does not make that much of a difference."

The angel bit his lips and took a look around the room, avoiding his friend's eyes.

"About that...You know I am cut off from Heaven. Don't expect too much."

"Wow, then go on wasting your mojo on zapping your lazy ass here from... from where? Like the front yard?"

"I wasn't..." Castiel tensed up, but stopped short and let his indignation out with a sigh, "Nevermind. I simply think it would be reasonable rethink your plan."

"Damnit, Cas, you know I can't!"

"Can't or won't?"

"Don't be a smartass."

Dean sat bolt upright. Castiel took a step forward.

"You know what he is capable of. We cannot exactly afford to pick and choose."

"Dammit," Dean stood up to use his slight height advantage to tower over the angel, who was hunched as usually, "I won't risk throwing a grenade right into a campfire just because you're limp!"

Cas responded with a withering glare, moving his face so close to Dean's that the man Castiel's his breath on his cheeks.

"And I am not watching the world collapse just because of your masculine mulishness..."

Ellen grunted.

"Get a room, love birds...We've got a job to discuss here."

They both petrified for a moment. Cas looked away, while Dean exhaled furiously through clenched teeth, then downed his beer.

The door squeaked and Jo shambled in, scratching the back of her head and yawning.

"You could wake up a dead man... What's going on?"

Dean made a wide, disapproving gesture.

"Well, we're discussing a sudden change of plans, because your mom here apparently..."

"Hey!" Ellen sent him a meaningful look, then turned to her daughter "Get back to bed, sweetheart. You're the driver, you need some rest."

Winchester could see drowsiness drain from Jo in milliseconds; her eyes widened, her back straightened, her nostrils budged in anger.

"And what's the age limit of your secret war council? I'm old enough to vote, you know?"

Dean had just opened his mouth to speak when he felt a pat on his shoulder. He turned to see Castiel standing by his side, gesturing with his head to the door leading to the kitchen. Wichester frowned, but it only made the angel's expression more urging.

"Excuse us, ladies," he said with a sigh.

"Now what? Another secession?" Jo threw her head back defiantly. Ellen mirrored her gesture, looking at Dean with indignation.

"Seriously? Now?"

"There is another option. You could both stand guard while we go after Pestilence and plant the bomb. Just Dean and me."

"Ain't it exactly opposite to what we've just said?" Ellen rose her chin and crossed her arms.

Winchester rose his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Sorry, ladies. If mister 'I gripped your ass and hauled it from hell' asks for private time, he will have it."

He followed Castiel to the kitchen, hearing Ellen's and Jo's angry snorts.

"So what's your brilliant plan?" Winchester asked as soon as the door closed behind his back.

"There is too much disagreement between you. On second thought, mixing Sam into this might not be the best idea."

"That's kinda my point. Tell me something I don't know."

"Like I said, I am weak now that I am cut off from heaven."

"Yeah, I already know this. It's not exactly a circumstance in our favor."

"Just listen to me," there was a small pause between the first word that Cas almost yelled and those that followed, spoken in soft, weary voice, "Perhaps I don't need Heaven. There is another source of power for angels."

The hunter rose his eyebrows.

"That being?"

"Human soul. This change would be transitional, but touching a human soul would make me very powerful."

"Ok, so how do we find a soul?"

Castiel cast his eyes down. He seemed inhibited, as if he was asking for something immoral.

"We don't need to. You have one. To be honest, yours would be perfect. You're so bright. With such power..." he swallowed and clenched his jaws so tight Dean saw knots of muscles under Cas's skin. Winchester could tell that mere thought of the act evoked extreme emotions in the angel. He felt a bit uneasy as well, so he decided to defuse the situation.

"So you're saying I'm some pretty top notch crack, huh? Hot stuff?" he joked, cocking his head.

Cas did not react. Winchester rubbed his lips and coughed.

"All right, man. Where's the catch?"

"I don't know if I still can do it. Before we decide anything, I need to check."

Dean opened his arms and cocked his head.

"What are you waiting for?"

Cas took a deep breath and pursed his lips.

"I am not certain what could happen, but most probably it would be unpleasant for you."

A flirtatious joke popped up in Dean's mind automatically and he almost said it aloud. He coughed, astonished by what his subconsciousness prompted, then rubbed the back of his neck. He felt he should hurry with a different joke to break the tension caused by Castiel's strange self-restraint, but before he could say anything nearly as stupid as his original response, the angel placed a chair next to a wall and said dryly:

"Sit down."

The hunter hesitated, but ultimately he followed the order. The angel leaned over him. Dean saw this friend's face right in front of his own, felt Cas's uneasy breath on his cheeks. Their eyes met; Castiel's look was so intense that the man could think of nothing else.

"Dean, I'm sorry..."

Winchester had never in his life had such a hard time trying to sound casual; his voice was feeble and raspy when he whispered:

"Cas, come on. I'm a big boy. Go for it."

The angel slid his hand underneath Dean's T-shirt; his cool fingers traced a line from Dean's abdomen up to his sternum; the hunter felt them warm up slightly before they pressed harder and sunk into his flesh.

It was a shock. Winchester tensed up, wanted to jerk back and run away, but he no longer had control over his legs. Only his breath sped up almost to the point of hyperventilation.

He hardly noticed Castiel's other hand brushing against his cheek and resting on his shoulder, but it was enough to make him gather himself. He focused on the angel's calming, loving gaze; he clung to it as if it was the only thing keeping him from giving in to panic. After a while he was able to take deeper, slower breaths. Castiel's touch was sending waves of tingling along every nerve in his body and as soon as he overcame the fear he realized it was not unpleasant. On the contrary. His muscles quivered, then relaxed. When he stopped fighting the weakness that was beclouding his mind and taking over his body it filled him with dreamy warmth. Dean leaned into that touch, sought it, opened himself to it. For the first time in his life he trusted someone this way; he was helpless, half-conscious, but safe.

There was a minute, scary thought fluttering in his head, but Castiel's calm soon silenced it. It was good.

Somehow it felt natural to place his hands on Cas's hips and pull him down; to make the angel kneel between his spread legs, then embrace him tight. He heard the angel's strangled gasp and a wave of electrifying light blazed through him, making him throw his head back and let out a quiet sigh.

He couldn't tell how long it lasted until the angel pulled away. Dean felt giddy, but in a good, languorous way. He pulled his friend closer again; his hands wandered up Cas's back, underneath his trench coat while his friend leisurely skimmed Dean's neck and collarbone with his thumb. Winchester bowed a bit and rested his forehead on Castiel's; for a long, long while they said nothing, just held on to each other, with their eyes closed, breathing the same air and smiling.


	7. Chapter 7

Every single one of Dean's attempts to lighten the fraught atmosphere failed. He could not blame his friends for asking what Castiel's plan was, but the whole explanation would have been far less awkward if Jo hadn't asked how literal he had been with "touching". There was intimacy in the act that he wished to protect from everyone. Perhaps the fact that hunters, who were used to supernatural symbolism and mysticism were able to decipher its real meaning was even more disturbing. When discussing the alternative plan with his friends Winchester fooled around as always, but he kept looking for a pretext to end the conversation and hit the road.

Sluggishness of Ellen's pickup forced the hunter to go easy on the pedal so that the girls would keep up with Impala. The fact that Cas was perfectly silent the whole way was not helping. Apparently angels had an ability to fall into a state of numbness when they did not even need to shift position, clear their throats, scratch their noses or do whatever a real person would do when forced to sit in a car for several hours. Dean hated Cas for being so calm while he was so insecure; for making him vulnerable; for forcing him to admit what he really wanted. Winchester tried to focus on driving and his special cruising mixtape; tapping the wheel in time to ACDC and Iron Maiden songs did not help much. No matter how much he focused on the road, his sight always caught a fragment of Cas's face while turning or shooting a glance at a rear view mirror. There was no escape from the fragrance of frankincense and chrism. Whenever he changed gears, the back of his hand brushed against an edge of the damned beige trench coat; the fact that the angel noticed it once or twice and tried to pull the fabric away was making Dean want to scream. There were at least five moments when he was on the verge of punching Castiel in the face.

He was still prickly when they reached their destination and for the whole time they were checking their weapons, making last preparations and approaching the plant they intended to blow up - the one where, as the King of Crossroads had assured them, Pestilence had his headquarters. The vague awareness that he should not be so embarrassed was making him even more edgy.

"There are no humans," the angel announced after taking a look at the plant "all security guards are possessed."

"Guess we're good to go," Ellen checked her pneu-gun. Dean's idea with holy water darts caught on, but the pride it filled him with was not making him any less edgy.

Jo pulled a black plastic tube with a folded devil's trap stencil and a can of spray paint from their car's back seat. When she held it she looked like an art school student. Evening chill gave her pale cheeks a touch of nice blush. There was still youthful clumsiness in the way she kept flicking her hair back or pulling her jeans up. The sight awoke choking ache deep in Dean's chest. It was not how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to protect others, let young girls such as Jo have a normal life, study visual arts, carry their pictures in plastic tubes instead of a tactical version of devil's trap.

Castiel had been staring at the girl too and ultimately his look met Dean's. They exchanged a short nod. It was the right way to do it. Only they would have to risk their lives.

Winchester tried to feel grateful to Cas for allowing this, but inexplicable jitters took over and eclipsed all other sensations.

"One hand of God with a take-out power bank ready to go," he joked stiltedly, trying to convince himself that it was a good plan.

 

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

The impact tripped him up; instinctively he shot the demon with a dart and used the time it bought him to get to his opponent and dig Ruby's knife in his gut. It was not until the light under the demon's skin faded that Dean felt the pain and his legs buckled. For a while he tried to stand up, but his thigh was a mess so he crawled to hide around a corner and prop himself against a wall. Footsteps of at least three demons on metal grid of the overpass above the warehouse echoed in the empty hall and corridors. Dean stuck his head out to take a look. He was not within their aim, but now that a trail of blood indicated his location it was a matter of time when others would get to him.

Two demons jumped down from the overpass and broke into run.

"Cas, for fuck's sake..."

The angel appeared immediately; he pierced the first demon, but before he could draw the blade back and turn, the second demon grabbed him from behind. Dean knew the lock - his father had taught him it - and felt an sting of panic,but Cas somehow twisted in the lock, dove for the blade to pull it from the dead demon's chest; forceful kick in the jaw made him kneel, but not fall. He started up and used the impact to dig the blade into the demon's scull.

Next second he was kneeling next to Dean; his grip on Dean's thigh was rough and the pleasant titillation of healing was drowned out by pain it caused. Then Cas clasped Dean's wrists over his head and whispered in haste:

"I have to do it now. Try not to move."

This time it hurt; Dean's heartbeat sped up to the point when he could feel it like a painful quiver against his ribs. His muscles tensed up; his whole body shuddered, trying to expel this foreign presence with one spasm. Revulsion and panic coiled in his gut. Pain blinded him.

"Dean, please..." he heard Castiel's whisper; he could feel the angel's lips skimming his ear.

Dean sought this touch blindly. His panic ebbed a bit when he felt the familiar roughness of Cas's cheek against his own, but he was still hurting.

"Don't fight it. Trust me."

Castiel's voice resonated deep in his chest; Winchester could feel it as he clung to his friend, with his head cradled against Castiel's arm. Through the pain he could feel the angel reaching deeper, taking even more of him. He sought the calm and bliss he already knew, tried to open himself, entrust himself to Castiel. When he finally did, he was filled with pure light; radiant energy discharged inside him and he knew nothing more.

 

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

The air was chilly; damp coolness of winter drawing hear lay in wait in the dark, ready to take place of autumn's pleasant warmth. Chilly wind rustled among pines - massive columns of black against the starry night sky. It was so ominous Dean instinctively stuck to the rectangular spot of warm, russet light cast by the kitchen's window, just outside the front porch.

"Are you sure you need to go now? Don't you grasp the idea of celebrating?" he asked with a sour grimace.

Castiel turned around to face him.

"I have much to do. We will...as you say... stay in touch."

"You're buzzin' off like it's granny's tea party. Come on, just one shot. Bobby opened his blue label. We've ganked a horseman today, right?"

The angel bit his lips and lowered his head. There was an air of dejection about him that wiped the smile off Dean's face.

"Cas, what's wrong?" he asked with concern.

"I am sorry I had to hurt you."

"You didn't."

Castiel's eyebrows furrowed; he cocked his head in wonder.

"You didn't have to," Dean repeated firmly, "We both agreed it was the right way to do it. C'mon, stop sulking like a baby. I told you I'm a big boy. Jo and Ellen are OK, this is what matters."

The angel sighed.

"It seems that you would always make such a choice," there was a peculiar undertone of sadness in this whisper.

"I thought an angel would know these things."

Cas leaned against the wall. After an instant of hesitation Dean joined him, but stayed on the patch of light; there was a plain of dry grass stretching to the horizon. The way it glinted in moonlight made the wind that swayed it a bit less ominous, a little more magical.

"You cannot imagine how different we are," Castiel began quietly; as usually there was not much cadence in his speech, but as far as Dean could tell his friend was abashed "Yet I think I am beginning to grasp the idea of..." he stopped and let out a soft huff.

"Of what?"

"Emotions. Caring. Of what gives you peace despite your own pain."

This awkward confession brought a warm, tender smile to Dean's face.

"Yeah, Cas," he said, laughing softly "that's the general idea."

"So you think I can ever cease to be like Rainman?" he lowered his gaze, but after a moment he threw Dean a quick, sidelong glance.

Winchester cocked his head and rose his eyebrows.

"You check all the shit I say?"

"Sometimes. I like to know what you mean. It's educational," The angel's gaze glossed over the glistening field or perhaps something even more distant, "For instance I wish I had understood when you mentioned Thelma and Louise..."

Dean's gasp was embarrassingly loud in the silence that fell after these words. Cas turned to look at him and suddenly Dean's world shrunk to the starry deep blue of Castiel's eyes and the pounding in his own chest. There was this little pang of scare. Every single thought was silenced and all that the man was aware of was how dizzy he felt. Yet somehow he moved, as if possessed or hypnotized. Dean stepped out of the spot of warm light; he reached out to gently clasp Cas's wrist with one hand and his side with the other. When he saw no reluctance he let his hands wander up slowly, gently, as if he was taming a bird. Castiel wrapped his hands around the hunter's waist - so delicately at first that Dean barely felt the touch through his jacket, then second by second the angel embraced him tighter; his touch became urging, hungry. Dean's finges skimmed Castiel's jaw, slid slowly up his cheek, behind his ear, laced into his hair. Dean wrapped his hand around Castiel's nape and the back of his head, observing Castiel's eyes open wide in wonder, then close; his lips parting in unspoken assent.

At first it all felt wrong. Castiel's lips were dry and chapped, his cheeks covered in rough stubble, his saliva thick and salty, his tongue strong and inflexible. Underneath the scent of myrrh that Dean had learned to accept as his friend's own there was a barely discernible scent of cologne and man's sweat still stuck to Jimmy's clothes and body. An instant of panic made Dean's gut knot, but he remembered this overwhelming, calming wave of certainty that engulfed him when the angel was inside him. The rest did not matter. He deepened the kiss, clumsily fighting with Castiel's tongue, urging the angel to let him in. Finally he won, skimmed the roof of Cas's mouth, evoking a shudder that swept down through the angel's whole body.

Suddenly the angel jolted back; for a moment he stood there petrified, holding on to fistfuls of Dean's T-shirt, pushing him away and keeping him close at the same time.

"I need to go," he whispered blankly; he was stricken with sheer terror, "something terrible has happened."

Thump of footsteps and a sound of door opening made Dean turn around. He saw Ellen on the porch, cheerful and already visibly tipsy.

"Dean," she called "You'll freeze here. C'mon."

When the man turned back, Castiel was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean smelled sulfur as soon as his MPL-50 cut into gravel. He didn't even have to put the metal box with his photo, dirt, a bone and a twig of yarrow on the ground. The hunter stood up, flicked the dirt from his jeans and looked around. He immediately recognized the stumpy, piggy-eyed, dark-haired demon in a sassy suit, but to his astonishment the king of crossroads did not seem pleased. In fact he was steaming with anger.

"You moron!" he drawled out; ugly, livid flush was creeping up his neck "don't you dare summon me until you and your half-brained brother learn to do things right!"

"Hey, what the..." Dean frowned, cocking his head. Mentioning Sam sowed a grain of anxiety that shattered his peace.

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a politician nowadays? To prevaricate, impose decisions, organize a network of duplicitous supporters and spies?" the demon threw a tantrum on full throttle, he accentuated every word with exalted gesticulation and his posh accent was even more pronounced than last time they spoke "Can you even imagine the intricacies of infernal machinations? I am an unquestioned genius. I had a brilliant plan and I made one friggin' minuscule mistake. Do you know what it was?"

Dean moved his mouth like a fish out of water, unable to formulate words.

"Counting on the Winchesters of course!"

A shock wave rippled the grass around the crossroads. The demon gritted his teeth, clenched his fists and took a few deep, furious breaths. Dean wasn't sure if it was not a kind of relaxation technique.

"Hey, I ganked..." he said warily.

An inarticulate, sharp exclamation made Dean shut up.

"Dude, what the..."

The same, a bit louder this time and accompanied with a threatening shake of fist.

The hunter did not try to speak any more until the demon performed his calming exercise once again. Ridiculousness of the demon's temper tantrum mixed with a fluttering, chilling fear made a strange sensation well up in Dean - something akin to queasiness or burgeoning hysteria.

"Do you want to know what is wrong?" the king of crossroads hissed, tilting his head, "How about you ask the one who always bollocks' up?"

Confusedness must have been obvious on Dean's face. The demon rolled his eyes and continued his frantic speech.

"Do you need a clue? Of course you need a clue, you moron. Lanky, dimwitted... Rings a bell? Not yet? Nice hair, moose face, likes horizontal hula with she-demons..." the king of crossroads nodded with mean satisfaction seeing anger on Dean's face "Yeah. Finally. The other Winchester. Now will you please excuse me, have a good day, sir!" last words sounded like the demon wished Dean anything but a good day.

The demon disappeared. When the shock had passed Winchester heaved a sigh, ran his fingers through his hair and sat down on Impala's hood. He could't tell if he was mad, disappointed or worried; all he knew was that his muscles grew painfully stiff and his mouth was dry. He took out his cell phone and fiddled with it until it fell from his trembling cold, trembling fingers. Dean cursed. After a short internal fight he picked the phone up, wiped it on his jeans and dialed Sam.

"What the hell..." he muttered to himself as a pleasant, but official female voice reeled off its mantra. He shook his head, hung up and called Bobby.

"Hey..." he greeted his friend with pretended cheer having heard his tired voice on the other side of the line "I've been wondering... I haven't heard from Sam in a while. Do you now what he's up to?"

"Balls..." Bobby rasped "I hoped you'd tell me."

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

For the whole day Dean struggled to keep focused on driving. The road was barely visible in pouring rain that started as soon as the hunter left the crossroads; in the gloomy light that soaked through thick, steely, heavy clouds everything seemed gray and slithery.

Dean's mind was caught thrashing between worrying about his brother and replaying his last encounter with Cas. Whenever Dean focused on Sam or called him just to hear that the number was unavailable, terror crept up his spine, freezing blood in his veins. Ruminating on his friend to divert his attention was not a good idea.

On his list of unsolved problems the night at Ellen's was placed higher than Dean would like to admit. There were moments when he was almost convinced that his friend's behavior had been clear-cut; each time he managed to remind himself that Cas belonged to another species - incomprehensible for people - this peace was ousted out by panic. It clawed at his chest the whole time he drove to Bobby's; it made him decide he was in no position to drive when he was just a few dozen miles from Sioux Falls; it made him stutter when he was checking in the first motel he saw.

He was used to worries and pain giving him a hard time at nights, but never before had he been forced to drink himself to sleep because of embarrassment. It made him wince each time he wondered what that kiss could mean to the angel. Castiel's absence only confirmed his worse concerns. It wasn't until the bitter certainty that Cas hated him for what had happened took over that Dean finally managed to fall asleep.

The sun hadn't risen yet when he woke up from an uneasy, feverish, dreamless stupor. Through the welter of thoughts beclouding his mind it came to him that he smelled. It fueled his self-loathing. Dean spend the remainder of night in the shower, hoping that hot water would warm up his palms and feet that felt ice-cold or cool his fevered head.

It was still early when he left the room. The daybreak was gray, gloomy and lifeless. In the dim light, not bright enough to elicit real colors in objects, it took Dean a while to spot the silhouette in a black suit and a beige trench coat next to Impala. He halted dead. The fact that the angel had waited outside instead of popping up withing Dean's reach spoke volumes.

Winchester could not tell for how long they stood there, motionless, silent, staring at each other: Dean dumbstruck and inarticulate; Cas soulful and uncertain.

Finally the hunter managed to overcome the knot in his throat, though his voice was feeble and raspy when he asked:

"What the hell?"

"I just wanted to tell you..." Castiel answered even quieter, casting his eyes down "that my search for God is over."

Thrill swirled in Dean's gut, but the expression on his friend's face made it clear that there was no reason for excitement. Struggling to overcome the numbness of his legs he took a few steps towards Castiel and rose his hand to place it on Cas's shoulder.

"Don't!" the angel snapped, jerking back.

"What's wrong?"

The angel heaved a deep, jerky breath. He kept looking down, clenching his jaws. He stood there, hunched, powerless, somehow even smaller than the last time Dean saw him.

"You know," he began "It would be a display of vainglory if I thought it was only about me, but I can't stop myself from wondering..."

Dean bowed and cocked his head to look at Castiel's face, but the angel turned away again, flinching from the touch or look like a skittish animal.

"Cas, what happened?"

There was a guttural, resonant undertone in Castiel's usually raspy voice; it sounded like he strove not to cry.

"You were right. My father..." Cas gritted his teeth and forced out a sharp, pained breath "He isn't going to... He doesn't care. We are on our own."

Dean was stricken. Instinctively he reached out, but the angel took another step back. He clenched his fists and straightened up to send Dean a frigid, determined look.

"You should talk to Sam."

The hunter's tongue darted out to his lower lip.

"I was going to. Man, are you gonna tell me what happened or not?"

"Talk to him. Please. I am too weak to take you there, but here's the address," the angel said, having fished a mussy piece of paper from his pocket. Dean was surprised to realize that they were standing almost a two arms' length apart when the angel handed him the sheet.

He glanced at the address.

"OK, thanks. I'll drop by to Bobby en route."

"Good," Cas nodded, a bit absent-mindedly.

Dean bit his lip, considering the next step.

"Listen, if you're fried just hop in. We'll go there together or I'll give you a lift."

"Thank you. That's a nice proposition, but I'll decline. I'm strong enough to fly on my own."

"But don't you wanna..."

"No," the angel snapped, "I don't want to."

Dean flinched, taken aback by Castiel's firmness.

"OK, I get it..." he answered dully.

Cas's broody look tracked him the whole time he was getting in the car and trying to find the ignition switch; when he was slowly driving out of the parking lot he still saw Castiel's hunched silhouette in the rear view mirror.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Bobby certainly had what it took to connect the police's attempts to identify a John Doe with a gimmicky article about a missing corpse. Dean was already on his way to Sioux Falls, but after receiving Bobby's phone call he sped almost all the way. Even though he could find everything online, he was not ready to face it on his own.

He ran up the stairs to the front porch and stormed into the house, but he was stopped in tracks by Bobby's sad, accusatory look. The older hunter sat hunched in his wheelchair; a file of printed photographs and articles was spread out on a tea table in front of him.

Winchester approached the table slowly. Traced by Bobby's gaze he fished out the photo taken by the police. All the blood drained from his face; his muscles tensed up until it was painful; burning chill crept down his spine.

It was the second time he saw his little brother's dead body; this time raging anguish was replaced by dark despair. The first time Sam died it was because of a stupid mistake. It was Dean's fault, but Sam died fighting. It was pure and humane. This time...

Wichester read a laconic description of where the body was found. There was no suicide note, but the scene left no doubt. Self-loathing and fear filled Dean's mouth with a bitter taste. Guilt coiling in his gut was making him nauseous.

"He did a damn good job covering his tracks," Bobby muttered with bile, "no ID, no car keys, nothin'. He even burned out his fingertips. His old phone ain't answering."

Dean couldn't take his eyes from the photograph. It took him a long while to put it aside and skim over the article. It was published in a tabloid and publishers certainly had added some spice, but there was enough convince the hunter it was the right track. Corpse of an unidentified suicide victim disappearing from morgue, a flash of white light, police pathologist dead with her eyes burnt out.

The older hunter handed his private phone to Winchester.

"Voicemail. Last message."

Never before had anything been so hard for Dean as focusing on the dates and discerning what they meant. For a minute or so he just stood there, stupefied, staring at the announcement, article and phone. The voice message was left two days after Sam's death. One day after his body went missing.

The younger hunter searched for support blindly. His hand fell onto an armchair's armrest and he slumped onto its threadbare, hard seat in the last moment before his legs would give up and buckle beneath him anyway.

Dean forced himself to press the button and bring the phone to his ear. With his eyes closed and his face contorted in pain he listened to Sam's bland voice:

 _Hey, Bobby, it's me. Checking in as I promised. I lost my phone and it can take a while to restore the number, so please don't freak out. Perhaps I'll have a new one. Anyway I'll let you know. For now I am all right. Everything is... -_ there was a short pause; a gasp or a chocked back sob _\- yeah, all right._

Winchester's hand fell limp onto his thigh; he barely remembered not to drop the phone.

"Why would he do that?" he looked at Bobby with childish, helpless woe.

"Don't ask me, I dunno..." he took off his cap and fiddled with loose threads on it's worn-out rim, staring blankly at the photographs and papers in front of him, "But I know a good brother would not leave it at that."

Bobby pushed the papers in Dean's direction.

"Go, talk to him, you..." the hunter gritted his teeth and choked back an insult.

Winchester licked his lips and run his hands down his face. His jerky breath echoed against his ice-cold trembling palms.

"No," he rasped "No. I will not leave it at that, but there is something else I need to do."


	9. Chapter 9

Dean blew off looking for a parking spot. He left Impala blocking another car and walked briskly towards a tenement house, racing with his own fear. Dean knew that if he hesitated for even a second, he would not be able to resume the frantic chase that had brought him to Sam's door. Fighting the stiffness of his muscles and trying to calm his heart pounding in his chest he ran up the stairs, took a glance at the number and knocked loudly before the full awareness of what he was doing could discourage him.

Nobody was home.

Determination drained from Dean; he could almost physically feel it leave his system with every breath. He sighed and slouched. An unpleasant chill doused the burning heat in his neck and chest. Only his heart kept hammering against his ribs just as hard as it had been hammering a moment before.

It took much willpower and effort to climb to the next landing. Dean slumped down, still staring at the dirty door that was covered in peeling paint in an ugly, tawny shade.

An hour later, when Dean heard the well-known cadence of footsteps his own limbs felt so heavy and cold that he knew he wouldn't be able to move even if his life depended on it.

Sam looked old. Although he was wearing a thick winter jacket, a hat and gloves his brother could tell how much weight he had lost. Dean caught only a glimpse of Sam's face before the younger Winchester turned to the door with his back at Dean, but the hunter could have sworn he saw deep worry lines and livid shades under Sam's eyes. Burning pain trapped a sob in Dean's throat. He could not even breathe.

He had been looking for words to apologize for abandoning his brother, for letting him down. Even for letting him doubt that Dean could save him. Even for letting him believe that death was the only solution. He was ready to apologize for all the harsh words he had said; for suggesting that Sam was a liability. For nearly anything, but not for making Sam look like this. Not for this desolation. Not for his morbid paleness and gray strands of hair. Not for this dead void behind Sam's eyes.

The younger brother fumbled in his pocket, lifted a key with a shaking hand and failed to put it in the lock; the whole key chain landed on the concrete floor, sending an echoing clang through the building. Sam took off his gloves and the dirty whiteness of band aids on his fingertips caught Dean's attention. At first he did not understand. When he did, the thought sent a jolt of anger and pain through Dean's body.

Whoever it was that rose Sam from the dead, he thought it would be funny not to heal the burns Sam had inflicted on himself to hide his identity.

There was a moment when the older Winchester almost built up the courage to speak or at least manifest his presence, but the very next second Sam's key finally clicked and the younger brother disappeared in the darkness of his apartment.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Castiel took a look around an empty playground in front of him, then glanced at the blade placed on his lap. In the moonlight reflected by a glinting surface of fresh snow its gloss seemed even colder than usually. It glistened with the same shade of blueish, cadaverous light that emanated from a dying angel - the color of an angel's grace. The color of purity and tameness, so different from the multicolored blaze of a human soul. There used to be a time when he liked his simple, binary, monochromatic reality and he could not stop himself from wondering how it was even possible.

"You know," he sighed, turning the dagger in his fingers "I should probably quit asking for your guidance. It's just that old habits die hard. It's... It's difficult to be on your own. To have no one to turn to," Castiel let out a soft, bitter snicker "but you probably know that. Is that why you created us? To feel less lonely?"

The hilt was cool and smooth; devoid of any characteristic that would make it personal or unique other than a small rust-colored blood stain. No matter how hard he tried, Castiel could not get rid of it. It was Anna's blood, or rather blood of her vessel... the angel was not sure anymore. Perhaps it was meant to remain there - a constant, haunting reminder of his fall. Neither rebelling against Heaven nor standing up to Raphael had felt final. Not even killing angels he barely knew. It had all felt unreal, reversible. It wasn't until his blade opened Anna's throat to let out that white glare that he realized he had crossed a point of no return. He had killed his former captain, his friend. This deed had sealed his fate.

He had been there when Sam woke up, brought back to life by Michael's breath. Though Anna's plan to wipe Sam off the face of Earth had not worked, Winchester hadn't died in vain, nor had he wasted his time in Heaven. He'd brought a message from God. Castiel's father had turned his back at his children, although He knew how much they needed him. He had heard all the pain and despair Castiel had shouted out every night, but He did not care.

"I know you won't answer. I get it. I just want you to know I did not do it to provoke you. At least this time I have certainty as to the reason. I hope this is what you wanted, but I would have done it anyway."

Rationally he understood Anna had a point. Killing Sam was not enough to stop Lucifer, but erasing every trail of his existence could stop the Apocalypse or at least slow Lucifer down until another baby meant to be his vessel was born. Castiel understood that Anna had tried to be respectful by allowing Sam to take his own life and limiting her role to destroying every trace of him left on Earth after his death. There had been a moment when Castiel gravitated towards letting it be. In fact it hadn't been until he had agreed to step aside that he had felt how much his whole being revolted against it.

He had felt with every fiber of his body that Anna had been wrong. There had been a blazing  _NO!_ , obliterating reason, urging him to act. In defiance of rationality or even sanity he had killed Anna to protect his friend from oblivion. He had disregarded consequences, following an ardent surge of will because allowing a friend to die was something he could not do. It was as simple as that.

"On second thought..." Castiel pocketed the blade and ran his hands down his face, "you know what? I don't care. You..." a corner of the angel's lips twitched; his eyebrows furrowed "you crossed the line. I don't care what you think anymore. You have no idea what is wrong and what is right, you self-righteous..." the angel forced a furious snort through clenched teeth.

Castiel heaved a deep sigh. He looked up to the stars scattered all over an illusory canopy above his head. From a distance of thousands of light years the stars all looked the same. They all had the same blueish, pale shade.

The stars looked like indistinguishable, little specks, though Castiel knew each and every single one of them had its unique hue, size, history, pattern of spots. Destruction of any of them would probably pass unnoticed on Earth, but to planets and asteroids revolving this star it would be a disaster.

"Of course you don't," he spat out, "I wonder if you even realize how real it all feels. How much it can hurt. Perhaps if you knew..."

It was this insight that Anna had lacked. She had chosen to save humanity, but she had failed to understand there was no such thing. Castiel had fallen low enough to see people as they were: their fates, names, needs, faces and hearts. There was no such thing as humanity. The only thing that was real was people.

From a distance they appeared as a glittering, homogeneous mass. It had taken everything to get Castiel to understand, but he finally did. There was no way to evaluate a single part comprising the whole. Every life was priceless. The whole Earth meant less to the Universe than a mother to her child or a wife to her husband. He understood that no work of art was more beautiful than a smile; no cataclysm was more tragic than tears of a widow; no fight was purposeful unless it was put up to protect the loved ones.

"...but you know everything. You know about Sam and Dean, about all these people here," Castiel drawled out with disgust mixed with anger, "You know how they hurt and cry and stray. And you choose to watch us from above or from wherever you are and do nothing. Why?" Castiel's choked exclamation resounded in the silence of the night, "Why have you forsaken me, father? Why have you forsaken us all?"

The angel sent Him one last accusatory cry, then hid his face in his hands.

"You son of a..."

He tried to rub a hot sting off his eyelids. There was a glistening trail of wetness on his fingers when he finally moved them away from his face. The void in his chest still hurt, but it was a different kind of pain. He felt that an oppressive burden of guilt and uncertainty was lifted from his shoulders; as if the anger helped him buck it off. When Castiel realized that the loss of God's detached, inhumane love hurt much less than it should have he understood his fall was complete; that it was done. He found peace underneath his sadness.

"You know what?" he said, standing up and brushing the snow off his coat, "I don't think I'll bother you anymore..."

He took a deep, slow breath. The air was chilly; for the first time in his life he felt spikes of frost tickle his throat. Fresh snow scrunched beneath his feet when he walked up a hill to take a better look at a tranquil little town.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dean knew that the preacher was the right person as soon as he saw his pale face contort in a neurotic twitch. The hunter approached him; the preacher was already whispering his prayer when Dean patted his shoulder and sent him a challenging glare.

The next thing he knew was pain and a feeling of being dragged by an unstoppable force; through ringing in his ears he heard Castiel yelling. The angel pushed him onto a cold, brick wall; the pressure of Castiel's firm body against his abdomen and ribs wrung breath from his chest. Pain blinded him when Castiel hit his jaw. Every attempt to struggle free was pointless. It resembled trying to wrestle an iron column. He'd fought angels, but for the first time in his life he was caught in the hurricane of an angel's wrath. Dean realized he was helpless. A fit of panic swirled in his guts.

Winchester was so dumbfounded that he barely registered when the angel pushed him against a wire fence and stepped back. He couldn't tell how long he lay on littered pavement, writhing in pain and trying to catch his breath. When he finally gathered strength to look up, he saw Castiel standing a few steps away, with his fists clenched; his chest heaved in deep, furious breath. His glare was dark and unforgiving.

"What are you waiting for?" Dean spat out, choking on his own blood "Do it!"

When Castiel approached him, Dean was sure it was the end and, strangely, the thought was bitter, but not scary. He didn't even flinch when the angel's fingers touched his temple.


	10. Chapter 10

The next thing Dean knew was a familiar scent of old, moldy paper and a quiet crackle of logs smoldering in a fireplace. He was lying on something soft and smelly. When he focused, he recognized Bobby's and Castiel's voices coming from a certain distance or perhaps from behind a wall. He could not make out what they were saying, but from their tone he could tell they were both concerned and despondent.

Dean dared to move after a moment of hesitation. He was surprised and mildly terrified by the fact it did not hurt. He had expected broken bones and internal injuries, while all he felt was mild muscle soreness and a headache. Remnants of dizziness made reasoning a bit harder than usually, but he could assess he felt too bad to be dead and too good to be dying.

He sat up; the squeak of springs in Bobby's old coach alarmed the host and Castiel. They both entered the room. Dean frowned, having noticed how heavily the angel leaned on the doorjamb and how feeble he looked.

"How did I get here?" he asked with suspicion "You said no passengers last time... and you healed me. Why?"

Castiel sighed and sent his friend a sour look that clearly meant he was too jaded to answer stupid questions. He was deadly pale save for dark, grayish shadows under his eyes.

"Oh, cut it out! What the hell were you thinking, boy?!" Bobby chided in a pained, accusatory tone.

"You know what I was thinking!" Dean drawled out "What would you do?"

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Anything but strapping on a nuke if you ask me..."

Winchester straightened up and licked his lips nervously.

"You don't get it. The king of crossroads crapped out. We don't have options."

"There are always options." Castiel insisted.

Bobby rubbed his chin and tilted his head; his angry expression was melting into something akin to pity. He asked softly:

"It's about Sam, isn't it?"

"Hell yes it is about Sammy. He killed himself. He fucking blew his brains out!"

"And you really think he would have wanted this, you idjit?"

"Damnit. Stop preaching!"

Dean stood up and paced through the room before he snapped:

"Tell me you didn't know. Tell me you didn't..." he choked back an angry growl.

Bobby and Castiel shared a quick, uneasy glance.

"He made us promise we would't burden you with this."

Dean squinted.

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he is a goddamned Winchester!" Bobby snapped.

"We didn't know he was planning a suicide" Cas added cautiously, "I heard about it later, just in time to protect him so that he could be resurrected."

"All right, thanks for that, but you both knew how bad it was and you didn't tell me. If you decided to meet him behind my back you should have at least watched over him," Dean yelled, gesturing at Bobby "I can understand you couldn't do much, but you?" he turned to Castiel "You're one hella crappy guardian angel."

"Perhaps, but you need to trust me now," the angel made a step towards his friends on shaky legs, "You will gain nothing by saying yes to Michael. He can't beat Lucifer. Only you can do it."

Dean bristled:

"Why should I trust you?"

"Dean, hear him out," Bobby's firm order infuriated Dean even more.

"Why?" he yelled, pointing at Castiel and glaring at Bobby, "He screws up time after time! Did you even know that if his holiness had told me about Lilith instead of crapping out like a wussy nothing of this would have happened!"

"Haven't I redeemed myself for that?" Cas asked wearily.

"Oh yeah, because lying was a great way to do it!"

"I never lied to you."

"Please, don't give me that shit..." Dean's upper lip twitched in disgust, "You didn't tell about Sammy, it's as good as lying. Don't even get me started on how sick I am..."

"Shut up, for heaven's sake!" this time Bobby's yell was even louder and, surprisingly, it worked. Winchester and the angel turned to look at him. The older hunter heaved a deep breath.

"You," he snarled, pointing at Dean "shut your cakehole and listen. And you," he turned to the angel, "quit whining and tell him what you've told me."

After a moment of tense silence the angel sat on the couch, paying attention to sit as far from Dean as possible. Bobby steered his wheelchair closer. Cas began his story in a low, strained voice:

"You often wonder why I call angels my brothers and sisters if there are so many of us. You're right. There are countless angels; we consider ourselves siblings but I hardly know many of them. Lucifer, Michael, Raphael and Gabriel were different. There were created as soon as time started passing. In the beginning there were only them and our Father. They loved one another like a real family... but it changed. Before the first day of history our Father created other angels, then there was light, then the world, then humans. Archangels grew jealous. They thought our Father was out of his mind; they conferred and conspired, finally they agreed they would try to convince God that the world was imperfect and should be destroyed. Lucifer was too impatient. He betrayed his brothers and openly refused to accept the changes. His audacity enraged our Father so much that it rendered any reasoning or parley with Him impossible. If it was not for Lucifer, Michael could have proved his point, but instead he was forced to fight for a cause he did not believe in. Now, after all these millenia he still bears a grudge. He wants to fight Lucifer again only because he hates him."

"So what?" Dean cocked his head. Bobby rose his eyebrows in an unspoken warning.

"Dean," the angel insisted "it means that he will lose. You are the only one who is strong enough to defeat Lucifer, not Michael."

Winchester huffed.

"Cas, where was your brain when you were making mincemeat of me? You're just one little feathery bastard, all but drained, and you could have killed me with one hand tied behind your back."

The angel turned to face his friend; he moved a little closer in the process.

"But I didn't," he said, looking Dean in the eyes with the same amazed veneration that always sent a chill down Dean's spine, "It was what that I've learned from you that stopped me. I see the world the way you taught me to see it," Castiel spoke on, ignoring a little twitch of pain and disappointment that flashed through Dean's face. "Hatred cannot be a source of real strength, because it is fueled by self-love. It's so easy to give up when all one cares about is himself, but you... You never give up as long as there is anything worth saving. It has to be you."

Winchester gave each of his friends a long, pleading look. None of them budged. Bobby and Cas were both tense and expectant, though their insistence was underlined with sadness. Suddenly Dean felt small and insignificant, and betrayed.

"So what do we do?" he asked.

Bobby's badly masked sigh of relief did not escape his notice.

"We bring Sam over and you brats pull your heads out of your asses and talk."

"Then we try to figure out what exactly scared the king of crossroads off and we keep looking for the colt," Castiel's voice was gravelly and toneless again.

Dean clapped his thighs and stood up, then agreed with a fake cheer:

"OK. Let's do this. Just gimme a second. I... I need to wrap my head around it."

He walked out to the back yard and let the cold, damp air fill his lungs. He did not even have the time to fight the lump in his chest when he heard footsteps and felt Cas's presence behind his back.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

Winchester snickered viciously.

"You ask what's wrong? Everything," he turned to face the angel; he didn't care if Cas could see that his eyes were misty "Was this all you had to tell me? That's why you didn't finish me in that alley? Just because you need me?"

Castiel's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He drew a sharp, quick breath and intended to speak, but this moment of hesitation was enough for Dean. He raged:

"Great. You two junkless sonsofbitches try to use me against Lucifer, you just can't agree on the way to do it. It feels fucking great to be the rope in a tug-of-war between two holy assholes. Why don't you two just meet and flip a coin, huh?"

"What are you talking about?"

Dean felt his anger was giving in to pain; he struggled to hide how stangled his voice was:

"I'm talking about you treating me like a doormat. You brought me here. I thought oh, great, perhaps we can finally talk like normal people and all you have to say that I can't let Michael ride my ass because you want to shove your hand up there and work me like a puppet? Is this who I am? A fucking pawn? Is this all I mean to you?"

Castiel made a few cautious steps towards his friend and reached out to his hand. Dean did not flinch away from his tentative gesture. Cas's cool fingertips skimmed the top of Dean's hand and wrist.

"Dean, you mean everything to me," the angel quavered "but for the rest of the world you are the one who can save it. Nothing more and nothing less. Believe me, I wish I didn't have to ask this of you."

For a long while they stood motionless and silent, tied by each other's gaze. Dean tried to keep his breath in check; it only made it louder and jerkier. Finally, the angel cast his eyes down and turned away. The hunter grabbed Castiel's arm and pulled it back; at first the angel tensed up instinctively and Dean felt there was no way to overcome this inhumane strength, but after a moment Cas's muscles relaxed and he let Winchester turn him around and push him onto a wall. He didn't fight back even when Dean locked his wrists in a firm grip on both sides of his body.

"What did you say?" the hunter rasped, bringing his face so close to Castiel's that he saw his pupils widen in shock.

"I said that..." the angel clammed up.

"Goddammit, Cas! What's your problem?"

There was a moment when an expression of fear crossed Cas's face, when he was close to pleading. The next moment the angel was composed and impassive again. He had no trouble wrenching his hands off Dean's grip.

"It doesn't matter now," he concluded.

Dean gritted his teeth.

"Yeah... Probably you're right."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Bobby was finishing a phone call when Dean came back.

"I'll have a friend give you a lift so that you can get your baby here," he announced merrily, having put the phone down. Just then Dean's mobile started to ring. He winced at the name displayed on the screen.

"Yup?"

"Dean?" Chuck squealed. He was breathing heavily and his voice was wobbly when he babbled: "Dean, I had a vision. Sweet baby Jesus, it was big. You need to see me. Come. Please."

"Woah, slow down, man. Is something after you?" Dean made a reassuring gesture even though Chuck couldn't see it, then frowned at Bobby's snicker.

"Wh... What? No! It's about Sam. He's gonna... Jesus frickin' Christ!"

For a while Dean could hear only Chuck's jerky breath and a voice in the background that sounded like a TV speaker. Finally, the prophet wailed "Dean... Do you have a TV there?"

"Uhm, yes..." the hunter gestured towards Bobby's TV set. The older hunter handed him the remote.

"Turn one a national news channel. Is... is there a live transmission about a hurricane and an earthquake in Detroit?"

Dean confirmed. He was getting more and more anxious every second.

"Oh crap..." Silence fell on the other side of the line after this exclamation.

"Chuck...?" Dean urged, "Chuck?!"

There was a silent, choked back whimper, then Chuck reeled off again:

"I don't understand. Last time the visions came in advance... Why now? I thought this broadcast was a part of it, but if you can see it too... Or maybe this call is still a part of this vision. Fuck! Is this a vision? Dean, are you a vision?"

"Chuck, for fuck's sake, nut up! Are you gonna tell me what the hell happened?"

The moment of silence on Chuck's side was even longer this time. The words that followed it froze blood in Dean's veins.

"It's Sam. He..." Chuck heaved a deep breath and finished almost noiselessly, "Sam said yes..."


	11. Chapter 11

Thirty minutes of retching and fighting for breath later Dean came to his senses. He noticed that Castiel was not around. It meant that nobody would stop him. He decided to do the only thing that came to his mind, ignoring Bobby's pleads and threats.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Two hours of hollering and begging later Dean realized that no one would listen. Wherever Michael was, he had no intention to help anymore.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Forty hours later, when the headache was becoming unbearable and his mouth stung with the burning bitterness of bile Dean finally managed to drink himself to sleep, or rather knock himself unconscious with the whiskey.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Three days, seven bottles of scotch and five quarrels with Bobby later Dean finally accepted the lift to fetch the Impala.

He took a long shower that didn't ease the pain of his muscles, but managed to wash the stench away from his skin, making him feel less humane - as if he gradually dissolved in the reality that knew no mercy; that would remain the same no matter how much he cried and retched, and writhed, begging. He managed to walk and breathe and talk like he was a machine, still running only due to inertia.

The woman that drove him to where the car was parked said nothing but a few sentences, just when Dean was getting off her pickup:

"I've lost someone too," she confessed bleakly, looking straight ahead "Back then if anyone told me I'd survive I'd think that that person was crazy. But here I am, up and kicking. Just don't wait until you get back to normal or you'll wait until the cows come home. You'll survive and that's pretty much it."

The hunter bent to look at the woman sitting behind the wheel through the rolled down window. All he managed to choke out was a quiet "thank you."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was a long straight section of a neglected single lane road. Wheels rolling smoothly on dry asphalt and Impala's bass hum were giving Dean some makeshift peace, even though rationally he knew the world was falling apart. There was only one difference between this ride and a normal day. Baby's speakers remained silent. Dean could not stand music anymore.

...and it was not Baby anymore. It was just "the car".

Focusing on a job regardless the circumstances was an ability Dean had trained through years of being a hunter, but now it was alarmingly easy to cast all the worries away from his consciousness. As if it was too much too take. As if his mind expelled them like an ill body expels fester.

His brain welcome the hours of idle running, when the only thing he had to do was automatically repeating movements and reflexes imprinted in his nerves through years of living behind the wheel. The best he could do was to focus on the road ahead, let his eyes get used to cinereous twilight and drive. He would worry when he reached his destination. Now it was only him, a dark stripe of the road ahead that Impala devoured mile by mile; his hands on the wheel that was smoothed by years of handling, his back pressed against the leather seat that remembered the shape of his body.

He was startled by his phone chiming. Normally he would answer while driving, but this sudden stimulus that broke his numbness made him realize that he needed a pit stop anyway. Ignoring the solid line he pulled off and picked the call from an unknown number. Next second he was glad he had stopped.

"Dean Winchester, who is it?"

He heard a jerky sigh of a woman or a child at the other end of the line.

"Uhm... This is Amelia..."

"I'm sorry. Amelia who?"

There was another gasp melting into a quiet yelp. The woman stuttered, Dean almost heard her lips move, helplessly trying to form words. Finally, she managed to whisper:

"I hoped you would remember me. Amelia Novak. Jimmy's wife."

Dean felt like he was falling.

"What happened?" He barked. A part of him knew he should regret this harsh tone, but he didn't really care.

"They... I... Jimmy's in a hospital. It... It's bad. Very bad."

"And?"

A soft rustle hummed on the other side of the line. It sounded like Amelia tried to mask a sob by turning away.

"The thing is that I don't know if it is him, he's still unconscious. What if it's... This thing?" her voice was even weaker and jerkier when she came back, "Dean, it was not an accident. Doctors say he looks like he has been in a battle. Someone did this to him..."

Winchester sighed and rubbed his mouth and chin. He let out a sharp, angry breath.

"Text me the address."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was a regular night in St. Michael's Hospital, maybe even on the calm side of normal. Esther was lazily sipping her fifth coffee when Delilah entered the nurses break room and slumped down onto a white plywood chair on the opposite side of a small table.

"Whatchya doin?" Delilah asked, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. Her older colleague sent her a faint smile.

"The usual. Hoping that nobody will try dying on my shift."

The younger nurse ran her fingers through her short, dark hair.

"The mauled guy from fifth looks like he might," suddenly he straightened up and patted her friend on the forearm wiggling her prominent eyebrows "by the way, my drama sense is tingling. I mean, have you seen his boyfriend?"

Esther frowned.

"I thought there was a lady. That blonde, you know. Wife, I guess."

"Exactly!" sparks of amusement glinted in Delilah's eyes. "She's his wife, but she didn't know anything. Where he'd been, what could have happened, if he was taking medication, nothing."

The older, fair-haired nurse frowned chidingly.

"You should stop eavesdropping, you little sticky gossip..."

Delilah bristled, but she finally got that it was just a jest. She chuckled.

"Anyway," she continued, embellishing her expatiation with energetic gesticulation "I thought - the hell, perhaps he'd moved out, but why would he, I mean the girl is not my type, but she's cute - until I saw this hottie. I'm tellin' you, honey, it's the kind of guy that could turn me straight. These doe eyes, these DSL. I swear on my heart. And his dick extension?" she rolled her eyes with delight, "Superfly."

Esther almost choked on her coffee.

"His what?"

"Dick extension. It's parked down the alley. A 67 Impala. Impeccable black paint, matching leather upholstery, chrome hubcaps. If there wasn't so much Jerry Springer Show stuff going on, I'd ask him to give me a ride..." Delilah purred meaningfully.

The blonde clucked her tongue.

"Ok, that guy might be gay but it doesn't mean that him and the mauled guy are together. The guy from fifth looks straighter than... I don't know, he just looks extremely straight."

Delilah huffed and shook her head.

"Gee, he came here looking like he was run over by a corn picker and now he's wearing a handkerchief and has tubes in every hole. Everyone looks straight in an ICU, but believe me, sis, I know drama when I see it. I dunno how about the mauled guy, he's as good as brain-dead, but this iron closet? He's head over heels in love with the mauled guy. The way he looked at him - so cute I didn't know if I should puke or eat a family-size pack of vanilla ice-cream and cry myself to sleep. The wife seems to hate this butch... She did not know anything, but the butch knew. I'm telling you. The mauled guy left that blonde scout girl for that passion fruit and they've been living in a love nest somewhere over the rainbow. It all adds up, doesn't it?"

Esther did not answer, just shook her head, chuckling. The younger nurse looked at her somberly and announced:

"I'll bet my socks on it. If the mauled guy makes it, there's gonna be a divorce."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He hadn't expected he would recognize Amelia, but he did. The sight struck him with the same force as when he saw her for the first time. She was fine, prim and demure. A lean blonde with porcelain skin and enchanting eyes that brought peace; with pale lips made for kissing children good night. She was everything that should be kept as far from the blood and pain, and misery of a hunter's life as possible. Dean felt a pang of guilt when he realized that if it had not been for him, these eyes would have never had to see what they had seen.

She was sitting by the bed; the sound of her gasp when she noticed Dean was all but drained out by the beeping and humming of life-support.

"Hi. How is..." the hunter began in a strangled voice "you had a child, right? What was her name?"

Amelia cleared her throat.

"Claire is at her aunt's. I haven't told her about all this. She's hardly accepted that her father is gone. She couldn't take it once again if..." her voice trailed away. She cast her eyes down. There was a fidgety, tentative gesture as if she instinctively reached out touch the man on the bed, but stopped halfway. Her embarrassment when she clasped her hands on her knees made it even more heart-wrenching.

Dean tried to remain as matter-of-fact as he could. By then he still hadn't even glanced at the unconscious man and was doing his best so that it remained so.

"Amelia, I really don't know. Cas has been through much. No human could survive it. Usually when a demon leaves its meat... a human, the human dies, but then again I know nothing about angel possession. Cas and I... We never spoke about your husband."

"But what if he..." the woman couldn't bring herself to wording her worse anxiety, "what do I do?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry. I just... I need to go."

Amelia quavered in protest:

"I thought you'd want to stay and wait."

Dean finally threw the man a quick glance and fell a wave of cold, nauseating numbness wash down on him. The sight caught him off guard, forced back a welter of memories he had bulldozed out of his consciousness. Guilt and anguish welled up in chest, streamed throbbing in his veins, draining strength from his muscles like a bad fever. Before he could stop the impulse, his fingers hovered around the man's bruised cheek and temple, tracked the uneven elevation of his split brow ridge, but Dean withdrew his hand before it touched the man's skin just like Amelia had.

"Yeah," he rasped absentmindedly, "I might stay in town overnight and wrap my head around things. If it's..." this time it was Dean who stammered, "if he wakes up by then and if it's Cas I'll have a few questions, but I'm leaving tomorrow evening at the latest."

"Dean, please," The woman sent him a weary, pained look.

A chair's metal feet scraped against the tiles when Dean moved it closer. In the silence that fell after Amelia's plead the sound was loathsome. Winchester sat down, rested his elbows on his knees; his gaze wandered the floor for a while before he spoke:

"Amelia, listen. I am doing my best. What you saw back then, these demons and angels, it was nothing compared to the shitstorm that's brewing right now. If it rains down, nothing will matter anymore. You won't have time to settle your little marital disagreements, 'cause you'll be running for your life. No one will be safe. The best way for me to help is to leave."

"And what if it's not Jimmy? What do I do?"

Dean sent Amelia a sidelong glance, then he went back to staring at the unconscious man.

"My advice? Don't get attached."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Esther beamed with pride when she entered the break room. She was so eager to share the news that she kicked her sleeping friend's calf.

The dark-haired nurse was startled awake. A while passed before she fully came to her senses and fixed her eyes on her friend. Esther was already making two cups of coffee when Delilah asked languidly:

"Waasssup?"

"See? I told you. No divorce."

At first Delilah failed to connect all the dots. When it finally clicked, she was wide awake within a second.

"What? Cut it out. Impossible. Fairy godmother is never off base."

Esther shushed her with a gesture, then sent her a bantering smile.

"Perhaps it's a punishment for sleeping right after you started your shift."

"Like you never did it," the younger nurse rolled her eyes, but she was grinning again when the blonde put a cup of coffee in front of her. "So what happened?"

"Everything was like you said. The wife and the other guy came here this morning, they both spoke to the mauled guy for like a minute, then the wife ran out crying and the hottie stayed. But then..." Esther stopped short to built up dramatic tension, "the hottie went out, I guess he must have said something to the wife. He left the building and the wife came back."

Delilah seemed authentically crestfallen.

"Dang... I really hoped he'd give me a ride."


	12. Chapter 12

The timing was crucial - he learned it the bloody way. His first four demons were a failure. Before he managed to break them, each of them nearly broke him. Injecting holy water or inflicting burns with holy oil required effort and time. During these long hours the demons taunted him; spat out their own pain and bile reminding Dean of everything he had done. Reminding him of his choices.

No matter how hard he tried to deny it, their words pierced the shell of indifference he'd cultured. They reminded Dean about his own belief that destiny was a lie. Neither God nor fate had brought him to where he stood. Whenever he cast his mind back, he stumbled upon thousands of paths that had been open; that he'd chosen not to tread. Each of them would lead to a world where Dean was not a fiend, where Sam was free, where Cas wasn't gone.

There was the day when could get to Sam quicker instead of failing him, instead of letting him die on that muddy road in Cold Oak.

There were ten years when he could have resisted the temptation to end his torment in hell instead of giving in and drawing blood.

There were their fights when Dean could have shown more understanding and compassion instead for belittling his brother and pushing him away. There were these fights that slowly corroded Sammy's faith in him; that eventually made Sam trust Ruby more than he trusted Dean.

There was nearly a whole year the brothers spent apart, when Dean wasted hundreds of occasions to call Sammy, to ask how he was doing. Hundreds of evenings that Dean spent toying with his phone, unable to find the courage to press "dial".

He wished he could blame it all on a mysterious force; on merciless finality of God's word announced through His prophet, but he couldn't. It was all the fault of his weakness and cowardice, of his iniquity.

After a few months, the anguish brought by these ruminations was the only thing he felt. He kept replaying his most shameful moments; the need to do it was irresistible like the need to touch a sore wound. Each time he felt less and less until the pain was trapped underneath his madness like pus under a blister.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It wasn't until he learned to fill the demon's mouths and abdomens with salt and sew them up that torturing became easy again. He never asked any questions for the first week. The demons welcome the opportunity to speak when they were finally given it. They pleaded and spilled their guts and they wouldn't hesitate to sell anyone in exchange for a quick death. Unfortunately, they knew little. The king of crossroads, if he was still alive, dug himself in deep.

Still, they gave other names. They were always eager to betray their kin. A chance for a quick death at the blade of Ruby's knife was the only leverage Dean needed.

Despite their deals Dean exorcised a few of them instead of giving them the coup de grace he had promised. Exorcisms sent them right onto Lucifer's rack. He wanted to announce himself big.

It was his mistake. By September the demons stopped coming even when they were summoned by their names. From one of the last ones Dean learned that she wished she had chosen to ignore the compelling tug of a summoning spell and slowly dissolve in confusion and timeless, aimeless half-death than to face her fate. He leadned that she wished she'd listened to other demons who had warned her; that she wished she hadn't underestimated the monster that filled the whole Hell with dread.

The demons were not afraid of Lucifer. They were afraid of Dean.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Angels did not come either and it was a real misfortune, because Winchester had concocted unfailing methods to break them as well.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was late September when he managed to hunt down his last demon; it was the middle of October when he dumped what was left of the body into a river and rushed to find a place where he could wash his hands and face.

That last hunt was a success, though. Dean finally got what he wanted. He made the demon puke out that name along with pleads for mercy. At last, the hunter knew the name he needed to summon the king of crossroads.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Apart from the name, Winchester needed a summoning spell powerful enough to break the king's defense. Compared to the limited choice of things that could hurt a demon, torturing witches offered a whole gamut of methods. It was refreshing.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dean stood under the shower with his forehead resting on cold, smooth tiles, waiting for the water to crudely wash down the most of the blood. He would deal with any persistent stains later. Then he would scrub his skin clean, wash his hair a couple of times, shave his face clean, pick the dirt from around his fingernails. Then he would burn his clothes and dress himself in new ones.

Within a few months it became his indispensable ritual. He needed it to interact with people. He needed to masquerade as a human in order to walk around, buy meals, book motel rooms, ask questions and get answers. Sometimes it struck him that people whom he met on his way smiled or tried to engage in small talk with him. They were not afraid of him. They did not abhor him.

Dean vaguely remembered the years when he walked among humans unashamed, at ease, at peace with himself. He remembered how it amused him to see people wince at the sight of his ragged, bloodied clothes or his face covered in dirt. Back in those days he wore his own skin proudly; no filth could taint it, because his deeds were pure and straight. He used to fight for the right cause when he drew the blood that later dried on his face. His soul used to be healthy and untarnished. If someone made a wry face, disgusted by Dean's appearance, it only meant that this person was blind, unable to see past the shell that was not Dean; that was nothing to be ashamed of.

The world had turned upside down, but people were still as blind as they had always been. Now the people he met showed no signs of qualm even though underneath that clean skin dwelt a repulsive monster, an abomination. They failed to see the foulness of his soul. Dean lived among them and was so ashamed of what he'd become that he wouldn't be able to stand even one frightened look; even one wince of disgust. He had to do his best to disguise the monstrosity he'd became with that impeccable skin, and he did it well.

Thanks to this charade he had no problems obtaining most of the ingredients needed for the spell. Herbalists, art collectors, butchers, pet shop owners - they all attended to him with kindness sparkling in their unseeing eyes and with no fear that would make their voices quaver. Within three days from ripping his last witch to shreds Dean was ready to summon Crowley and ask for the Colt.

He waited for the right hour, watching thin, white threads of smoke wafting above candles on the altar he'd built. He kept imagining how it would be like to hold the gun again; to run his finger along its slender, embellished barrel, to slide heavy bullets into the cylinder. To lift it, press it against Lucifer's forehead and see the blood flood Old Nick's mutilated face...

Except that it would be Sammy's hazel eyes that Dean would have to look into while pulling the trigger.

This image struck him with a force that made him curl up and lean against the altar, fighting the blinding pain and daze. With a beastly growl he knocked it over. Among the shatters of statues and a crystal chalice, on a floor littered with bones and herbs, in a pool of blood he knelt, rocking back and forth, cursing his own weakness and crying.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was nothing but a deathwish that lured him to Detroit when he first heard the news about an unknown disease's outbreak in an addiction treatment center. He hoped he'd see Lucifer somewhere there, watching the horror unfold and gloating at his creation. Dean hoped he'd be able to look in that hazel eyes, shadowed by that unkempt black bangs; to see how the spark in them had transformed into something cold and cruel. Perhaps he'd find the strength to fool himself; to make himself believe that Sam was dead. Perhaps he'd be able to hate that creature. Or perhaps he'd die at his brother's hand and be relieved from the burden of his own deeds.

It was strangely calming to have to sneak through sanitary cordon and hide from the police like he used to do during his hunts with Sam. Except that this time he did not know what to expect, nor did he care. There was something alluring in that complex of old, single-story buildings scattered in a tree-covered park; something that beckoned him, forcing him to go rushing through the evening fog, to abandon the path and wade through a carpet of withered leaves.

He'd almost made it to a small, dark warehouse when he heard a warning shot and a policeman's harsh voice ordering him to stop and put his hands in the air. Dean obeyed. He was in the middle of making up a story that would justify this forced entry when he heard the footsteps right behind his back and felt a barrel poke his back. Dean turned around with a studied, innocent smile and took breath to reel off his story, but words got stuck in his throat.

The policeman's eyes were black.

His instincts did not fail - after a short fight the demon fell down in a flare of russet light. Before his body fell onto the ground the park around came alive with the rustle of dry leaves and barking, and Dean did not even try to check if he would be able to see the hounds. He broke into run. A stab of pain tugged at his calf; he fell face down.

There was a gunshot. A warm mass fell onto the ground next to Dean's face. He let out a huff- it wasn't a hellhound, just a german shepherd shot in the head with a very ordinary gun. Dean's relief did not last long. Two more demons ran towards him and he had barely managed to scramble to all fours when a forceful kick on the jaw made him fall again. The pain that quaked his body after another kick on the stomach was blinding. He saw nothing more, forced by an instinct to curl up and protect his head from mighty jaws of two more dogs. Dean heard more gunshots, thump of bodies colliding in wrestle, the dogs yelping and someone shouting his name. Before he caught his breath, the fight was over.

Winchester slowly moved his arms away form his face and blinked. There were people standing around him; their faces hidden by the twilight and the pain still blurring Dean's sight; their breaths quickened after the fight.

One of them made a few steps towards Dean. The hunter's eyes focused slowly, slowly discerning more than just the silhouette, ripping the sight from the darkness detail by detail. The man seemed to be a soldier or a militant. His combat boots were spattered with mud and blood; his worn-out camo pants were weighed down by something heavy hidden in the pockets that gave out metallic rattle as he moved - extra clips perhaps. His head was framed by an upturned collar of a tactical jacket. There was something familiar in his craggy, unshaven face, but it wasn't until Dean heard that gravelly voice that he recognized the man.

"Hello, Dean," he said, reaching down and before the hunter could gather his thoughts strong hands closed around his arms and pulled; the grip so was firm that Dean was sure it would bruise his skin; the force dragging him up was irresistible, compelling, urging. Winchester would not be able to stand on his own, but the man did not just help him up. He pulled Dean into an embrace that was so tight that it didn't even matter that Dean's legs buckled beneath him.

"Jesus..." Dean whimpered against the man's warm neck, leaning heavily on the man's strong shoulders; his voice was strangled and throaty, "Jesus Christ, Cas..."


End file.
